And in the Dark, I Call Your Name
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Seven months after he was sent to exile, Sherlock is back. The London he returns to is changed: His friends have moved on with their lives; John is happy with his wife and daughter. When Sherlock falls ill while he is still haunted by memories of his exile and struggling to adjust, he needs John more than ever, but will John notice? /S4 AU in which there's no Moriarty video.
1. Prologue - Mycroft I

_Hello again._

 _Dear Anagogia, this is for you. It took me four years, but here you are, finally. I hope you like it._

 _So, as you might have guessed, this story was inspired by, is based on and was made possible by a prompt from Anagogia, who's been very kind, and very supportive, and very patient during all this time it took me to write something for her prompt. ('Something' meaning: an AU post His Last Vow in which there is no video from Moriarty and in which Sherlock leaves for his exile, only to find, once he returns, that everyone has moved on without him.)  
_

 _So, beware of allusions to torture, violence and blood, and beware of angst._

 _As always, I don't own anything (not even the idea, this time).  
_

 _The title was inspired by Mumford & Sons and their song Hopeless Wanderer.  
_

 _This is the first chapter of thirty-something; it's short, but it's only the prologue. Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART 1**

* * *

Mycroft I – Prologue

* * *

When the phone call finally came, it was in the middle of the night, closer to morning than to midnight. Mycroft Holmes was still awake, seated in one of the armchairs in his private study. A half-empty glass of scotch sat on the sidetable next to him. Files – the latest reports about the current situation in the Middle East – were held loosely in his hands; his attention, however, was elsewhere.

The sound of his ringtone cut through the silence of the study in his mansion, and Mycroft raised his gaze from where it had been resting on the glass of scotch and the bottle next to it.

His private mobile phone. Ringing. In the middle of the night.

There was, as Mycroft was perfectly aware, only one person that could be responsible for this phone call, and only one scenario that would necessitate this nightly call. The phone rang for the second time, but still Mycroft did not move to reach for it.

A matter of time, he had told himself again and again since that very moment seven weeks and two days ago, it had only been a matter of time. A matter of time.

The phone chimed for the third time. Mycroft closed his eyes. His fingers, it seemed, had clenched around the sheets of paper in his hands of their own volition, all but crumpled the report he had intended to leaf through tonight. The fact that he had been expecting this very phone call for seven weeks and two days did not, apparently, make answering it easier.

A matter of time, he told himself again, and reached for his mobile. "Yes?" he inquired. His gaze, he noticed with a certain sense of detachment, had returned to his glass of scotch.

"Sir," his personal assistant's quiet voice addressed him, "it's your brother."

And Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and remembered with sudden, shocking clarity why one should never let one's heart rule one's head, why caring was most definitely not an advantage, and why he had dreaded this very moment ever since his brother had failed to check in at the appointed time exactly seven weeks and two days ago. Or, quite possibly, as he had to concede, since the very day Sherlock had been born.

"Sir?" Anthea repeated.

With his free hand, Mycroft took his glass, raised it to his lips and drained it, before curtly informing his personal assistant: "I'm on my way."

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. (Oh, and, by the way: the next chapter will be longer - and will, I hope, follow shortly.)_


	2. John I

_Wow. I am humbled by your response and interest. I know I haven't managed to reply to your reviews yet, but I want you all to know how much your feedback and your interest mean to me. So, thank you._

 _Here's the next chapter - it's meant to set the scene, mostly. Not much happening here, plotwise._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

John I

* * *

"John?" Mary asked around the telephone receiver that had been attached to her left ear for the better part of an hour now. It was Gemma calling, of course, and once Gemma had started chattering, one generally had a hard time trying to stop her. Not that John minded, as long as Gemma was talking to Mary and not to him.

"Hm?" he acknowledged, without taking his eyes off their daughter. Amanda was lying on her back next to him on the sofa and waving her small hands in the air, trying to grasp the rattle he was teasing his tiny daughter with. He could feel a smile spread on his face, and the lump that tended to lodge itself in his throat whenever he thought of his tiny little daughter made an appearance.

"Tomorrow evening, after work," Mary explained from where she was sitting in her armchair. "At Mark and Gemma's. Beer for you, cream tea for me. Okay?"

Amanda bubbled with laughter when John gently poked her in the side while she kept trying to grab the rattle. "Sure," he replied and nudged Amanda's tiny nose with the tip of his finger. She giggled again.

"Seven PM?" Mary echoed what John knew to be Gemma's suggestion.

Amanda's short fingers had finally grabbed hold of the red and blue rattle, and John turned to look at his wife. An evening at Mark and Gemma's, after work, sure. He gave a half-shrug, half-nod. "Sounds fine," he said.

Mary flashed him a quick smile and then returned her attention to the phone call. "John says fine," she told Gemma.

Mary had met Gemma in the yoga classes she had started to take immediately after Amanda had been born; Gemma had introduced them to her husband Mark, a lawyer, and ever since then Mary and Gemma saw each other at least once a week, often together with John and Mark.

"Oh no, he's not busy with work," Mary was saying now, shaking her head in emphasis. "He's teasing Amanda."

Amanda squealed in protest when John tried to grab the rattle again. He could feel a smile spread on his face.

"Oh, he is," Mary said, giggling. She directed another glance at him and their daughter. "He's smitten." Covering the phone with one hand, she mouthed: "Gemma says you're enarmoured with Amanda."

John's first instinct was to roll his eyes, a reaction that seemed to be rather common in response to something Gemma said. Smitten and enarmoured weren't exactly words he had ever expected to be directed at John Watson, Afghanistan veteran and army doctor, least of all by Gemma Adams, well-do-to secretary and notorious chatterbox. But then, he mused when he noticed his gaze sliding to Amanda, now resting on her stomach, rattle still grasped tightly in her fists, again, maybe it wasn't too far off from the truth. Maybe Amanda _did_ have him wrapped around her little finger.

On the phone, Mary giggled again. "I know, I know," she sighed. John could practically hear Gemma's shrill laughter ring in his ears.

"Oh, it's lovely," Mary exclaimed suddenly. She flashed John a quick grin before continuing: "Parquet floor, three bedrooms-"

This time, John could in fact hear Gemma's delighted squeak. He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"-three bedrooms," Mary went on, completely unfazed by Gemma's antics. Amanda yawned widely, a puddle of drool collecting on the sofa beneath her. John picked her up, ignoring her squirming, and placed her on his lap, rattle still clutched in her fists. "Two separate bathrooms, small kitchen, and a garden," Mary listed. "It's a very quiet neighbourhood, just what we were looking for."

The house, yes of course. John and Mary's plans of moving and renting or possibly buying a house on the outskirts of London or, if Mary got what she wanted, not in London at all, came up every time they talked to their friends. In Gemma's eyes, of course, their considering buying a house was proof that Mary was pregnant again. "Oh!" she had cheered the first time Mary had mentioned their plans, "a little sister for Amanda!" Fascinating, John thought not for the first time, how their domestic life had become the single most popular topic amongt their small circle of friends. Even Greg brought it up every time John agreed to go to a pub with him.

"I know," Mary said again. "It would be perfect for Amanda. Our own garden, her own swing set, maybe a dog..."

Moving, a house in the suburbs, away from London, a garden, a dog. John felt his brow furrow at Mary's statement, which earned him another bout of laughter from Mary. "John's not convinced," she informed Gemma.

Amanda bounced on his lap, and John missed whatever Gemma might have said in response.

Mary gave a giggle. "Oh, I think he's just not looking forward to all the lawn-mowing he'd have to do."

John had to smile at that. Ever since her pregnancy, he _had_ been doing all the lawn-mowing, and it still wasn't exactly one of his favourite things to do after a long day at the surgery. Especially since their lawn mower kept breaking down.

"Yes," Mary said. "I know, it's... no. We're still trying to figure out the financial aspect."

Blubbery laughter from Amanda startled John out of his reprieve, and the rattle hit the floor with an almost gentle sound. Excited, she started bouncing again and waving her hands towards the floor. With a small smile, John picked up the rattle and handed it to his daughter – who of course promptly threw it to the floor again. And then beamed at him, her blue eyes sparkling. "Oh no," he told her quietly. "If you do that, then Daddy's allowed to do this." She squealed again when he started tickling her feet.

"It's a bit difficult," Mary was telling Gemma while watching John and Amanda. "You know how it is. The surgery doesn't pay too well, and I'm still on baby break, so... But we're working on it."

Amanda blubbered again, and John bent down to pick up the rattle. They had been discussing moving house for months, in fact. Their flat, as nice as it had been for the two of them, was simply a bit cramped with two adults, a baby and the tons of baby equipment and toys they had somehow managed to acquire. And then, of course, there was Mary's dream of a quiet family life in the suburbs or, even better, the countryside, with a garden for their daughter to play in and...

"Of course we're coming to Daniel's birthday party," Mary said. Gemma, apparently, had once again changed the topic abruptly.

Amanda dropped her rattle again while Mary kept listening to Gemma and nodding occasionally. Most of the time, Gemma seemed to be perfectly content to talk and talk and whoever she was talking to didn't even need to reply.

Mary nodded again and shifted in her armchair. Amanda let out a wail of protest when John didn't pick up her favourite toy, but took a sip from his beer instead. "Of course I'll call you when we've made a decision," Mary reassured the receiver in her hand. She flashed John a look and rolled her eyes, gesturing at her ear. "I'll call you." She nodded again. "Say hello to Mark from us."

Amanda let out another wail and scrunched up her face. "Ssh," John made, "Mummy's on the phone."

Mary squirmed again. "I'll tell him," she said and nodded. "No, I haven't forgotten. Tomorrow evening, at seven."

Gemma's "see you" could be heard over the phone and Amanda's – still moderate – crying.

"See you," Mary repeated and promptly dropped the phone. "Gemma wants me to tell you from Mark that you two have to stick together with your wives planning houses and gardens. And they're looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Amanda babbled something under her breath and leaned forwards in John's lap, towards her rattle. "Ssh," John repeated softly and tried rocking her. Mary tended to have more success at calming their tiny daughter than he did. Indeed, Amanda's wailing increased in volume and John felt, despite himself, another smile spread on his face. Oh yes, their daughter definitely had a healthy set of lungs.

"Sounds like someone's tired," Mary muttered and yawned herself. She threw her head back and groaned. "God, I swear, they're good friends, but sometimes, they're just so..." She waved her hands around vaguely, but didn't finish her sentence.

Domestic, John's brain supplied, or suburbian, but he didn't say it.

"We're going to need a babysitter for Daniel's birthday," Mary then announced. "No way is she going to last an entire afternoon."

John pursed his lips and got to his feet; Amanda was still whining quietly in his arms. Their daughter was an easy-going child, who slept through some nights by now, at the age of five months, but if there was something she didn't cope well with at all, it was large groups of loud adults, especially adults she wasn't familiar with. And Daniel, a former colleague of John's, and the guests at his birthday party definitely belonged into that category.

"Mmh!" Amanda screamed and squirmed in John's hold in protest. "Mmh, mmh!" she blubbered insistently, shaking her tiny fists.

Mary stood and approached John. "Come on, darling," she mumbled, taking Amanda into her own arms. "Let's get you to bed, shall we? It's late already."

John watched his wife walk towards the stairs; she was swaying softly with every step to soothe Amanda. His throat closed up for a moment at the sight of their daughter's soft blond wisps of hair and her bright eyes. He hadn't expected, he truly hadn't expected to be so blissfully happy ever again, not after everything that had happened in the past year. But then, somehow...

"Daddy's being slow again," Mary whispered to Amanda, a teasing grin on her face. Amanda gave a whine in response and squirmed again. "I don't think you're going to get a bedtime story from Daddy today."

John felt another smile settle on his smile and followed Mary upstairs.

~(o)~

When Amanda started crying in the middle of the night, John was already awake. He had jerked awake, soaked in cold sweat, and even though he had managed to calm his rapid heartbeat and breathe quietly against the remnants of the dream that had woken him, sleep had kept evading him.

They still happened occasionally, his nightmares. Not nearly as frequently as they had immediately after his injury and discharge from the army, or after he had found out about his wife's hidden past and what she had done.

It certainly hadn't been easy, last year, and after Sherlock had headed for casework somewhere in Eastern Europe, leaving John alone with the shards of his marriage, John had found himself fighting with Mary more often than not. And then Amanda had come into their life, not even two months later, and somehow, everything had changed.

Amanda's wailing kept piercing the quiet in the house, loud and shrill.

Next to John, Mary gave a groan and removed her hand from where it had been resting on his left thigh, maybe to pull her pillow over her head. "Not again," she moaned.

The wailing – for the second time this night – from the room next to their bedroom didn't stop. John started fumbling for the switch of the lamp on his bedside table.

"John," Mary protested, her voice slurred with sleep, when his fingers finally succeeded and bright light cut through the dark room.

The wailing continued mercilessly.

"...she can't be hungry again," Mary mumbled sleepily and didn't even bother to turn around to face John. Or to remove the pillow that was indeed resting on the bed where her head was supposed to be.

John suppressed a faint smile.

No, she couldn't. She wasn't, probably, just had decided that she wanted a bit of attention, or maybe a story, or maybe another soft toy. Or maybe she wanted to be carried around for a bit, or sleep with her parents. The usual.

And of course she didn't give up once she had started crying.

John felt familiar warmth rise in his chest as he thought back to the day their daughter had been born. "I've got it," he told Mary and pulled back the duvet.

"Mh," Mary made and gave a soft sigh. "'nd switch off the light," she slurred from beneath her pillow.

He climbed out of bed and shrugged on a dressing gown while the wailing urged him to hurry up because his daughter demanded his attention.

"Mh," Mary mumbled again as the room went dark and John padded towards the door and their daughter's tiny room.

Amanda's room was dimly illuminated by the night light they kept plugged in. John approached her cot, but of course Amanda had stopped crying now and was smiling at him with what little facial control she had mastered yet, almost triumphantly.

John had never considered himself particularly fit for parenthood, had never seriously employed the idea of having children of his own. And yet, the moment he had first set eyes on the tiny human being that was his daughter, _his_ child, a piece of him and Mary, a sudden warmth had spread in his chest, along with the knowledge that he would love his daughter until the end of his days and had done so since the day she was born. He had, against his own expectations, immediately fallen in love with the tiny bundle of a human. The memory of how the newborn girl in his arms had yawned, ever so feebly, still managed to bring a smile to his face.

Becoming a father had, without any doubt, completely turned his life around.

His lips automatically curled into another smile when reached out for Amanda and carefully lifted her out of her cot, still little more than a feathery weight in his arms.

"Not tired tonight, are we," he mumbled. His smile deepened when she cooed quietly. "Or bored, hmm?"

With a routine that had come to him with almost scary ease, John sniffed at his daughter's botty, caught a whiff of dirty nappy, put his daughter down on the changing table and let his hands flick through the familiar motions of changing her nappy.

Amanda squirmed and protested as she always did until he was finished, had scooped her up again and started pacing, slowly, not yet ready to lay her back to sleep. He had to work tomorrow, again, and thirty minutes in the morning before he left for the surgery and about two hours in the evening, before she started yawning and fidgetting and whining even more than usually, clear signs of her need for sleep, were far too short to satisfy the still very new urge to spend as much time with her as possible.

"Need another bedtime story, hm?" he mumbled quietly, not loud enough to startle her. John didn't consider himself much of a story teller – still remembered certain comments in regard to his blog rather vividly – but Amanda luckily was far too young to criticise him. And Mary and he had established his reading her a story as a sort of bedtime ritual, so there.

"John?"

He flinched and stopped pacing, and Amanda give a brisk wiggle in his grip.

Mary stepped into the room, her eyes fixed on their daughter. "Are you coming back to bed?" she asked and tickled Amanda's cheek with her pinkie. "It's getting cold there without your daddy," she added.

John cleared his throat. "Yes," he replied. "Give me a moment, okay?"

Mary yawned and rubbed her arms. "'course. Night, love," she mumbled and padded out of the room.

"I'll tell you another story tomorrow," he whispered, pressed a kiss to his daughter's head and then carefully proceeded to ease her back into her cot. Of course she wiggled a little and wailed quietly, but John shook his head. "Tomorrow," he repeated.

Mary was already back in bed, but still awake. "Daniel's birthday. Babysitter," she mumbled. "We'll ask Molly and Greg. Or Mrs Hudson, if Molly's got to work. Maybe she's found a new tenant for her flat by then."

John climbed back into bed, resting his head on his forearms. "Mh," he made. Molly and Greg would be happy to have Amanda for an afternoon; Greg was her godfather, after all. And Mrs Hudson had been looking forward to Amanda's birth as if Amanda was her own granddaughter and fussed over her every time he and Mary came to visit.

"'nd we need to talk to the real estate agent again," Mary slurred. "'bout the house."

"Mh," John made again. The house. Moving. Not something he was looking forward to in particular, even despite the help their friends would no doubt offer. The contentedness that had filled him moments earlier had all but disappeared, and their daily worries resurfaced.

Mary yawned loudly and turned to face him, throwing one arm over his middle. "Tomorrow," she mumbled. "Love you."

John pursed his lips and felt Mary snuggling closer. Yes, tomorrow. They had dealt with so much already; they were able to deal with that, too.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading._


	3. John II

_Hello again! I'm afraid I'll have to settle for a monthly rate of publishing new chapters - one chapter per month, that's not too bad. Is it?_

 _Thank you all very much for your encouragement and reviews and interest. Really, I can't thank you enough._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

John II

* * *

A knock sounded on the door to John's office. He looked up from the screen of his computer, straightened and prepared to greet his final patient for today. One more cold, migraine, case of flu or maybe a sprained limb, and then he would head home to Mary and Amanda, grab a bite to eat and spend the rest of the evening at Mark and Gemma's, listening to Gemma and Mary giggle and chat and to Mark droning on about his car and his new flat screen. And then the same routine the next day, with the exception that he had agreed to meet up for a beer or two with Greg, Greg who would probably talk about nothing but Molly. John's professional smile deepened into an amused grin for a moment when he thought about Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard and father of two, behaving like a school boy with his first crush when it came to Molly Hooper.

The door opened, but it wasn't Mrs Walters, his final patient for the day. Instead, Lucy, his receptionist and Mary's replacement, poked her head through the door. "Your wife called earlier, Dr Watson," she said. "She says to call her back."

John nodded, already moving to pick up the phone. "Thank you, Lucy." If Mary called him during work – which she often did – it was usually either about Amanda or their plans for the day, the weekend, the month. Gemma and Mark maybe, or the real estate agent and Mary's dream of moving into a large house with a larger garden.

"Lucy?" he called the receptionist back while he was waiting for Mary to answer the phone. "Is Mrs Walters here yet?"

Lucy shook her head. "No, Dr Watson," she replied. "Do you need me to ask her to wait a few more minutes?"

John furrowed his brow and tapped his fingers on his desk. "No, it's fine," he said. "Just send her in when she's here."

"Yes?"

John leaned back in his chair and stopped his agitated tapping. The door to his office closed behind Lucy. "Mary, hey," he said. "What's going on? Everything alright?"

"Oh, John!" He could practically picture the expression of absolute glee on Mary's face, just by the tone of her voice. "Listen, I talked to the real estate agent again, and he..." She sounded breathless, and Amanda's not-so-quiet babbling could be heard in the background. "Oh, it's alright, sweetie," Mary told Amanda. "It's all fine. Where was I?"

"The real estate agent," John supplied while his mind tried to imagine Amanda in Mary's arms, face scrunched up because she dropped Bee, her favourite soft toy, or because Mary was trying to comb her soft baby hair.

"Ah, yes. So, I talked to him again, and he said that he'd be willing to add the shed next to the house to his offer and set up a swing set," she went on, clearly excited, "and everything for the same monthly rent. Or we could buy it, and even then the price would remain the same."

John pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger of his right hand. The house again. When Mary had first mentioned that it might be necessary to move, at least once Amanda started crawling and talking and then running, he had thought she was talking about a larger flat, somewhere in town, not too far away from the surgery. But the house she had fallen in love with... "And?" he wanted to know.

"And," Mary repeated and took a deep breath that was audible over the phone, "I might have said yes."

John didn't know whether to drop the phone in surprise or whether to sigh in acceptance of the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, Mary acted before she gave herself time to think.

"John?" she asked, and he could hear the nervousness in her voice. "Say something, John, please. It's not final, we can still take it back. John?"

He could only sigh. "Can we talk about that once I'm home? Or tomorrow?"

"Of course," Mary replied, and the elation was gone from her voice. "I'm sorry. It's just... I've always wanted a house with a garden. And since Amanda..."

John swallowed and closed his eyes for a second. "I know," he said quietly. "We'll talk about it, alright? See if we can make it work."

Mary was quiet for a moment; John could almost see her biting her lower lip. "Okay?" he asked again.

"Okay," she repeated. "John?"

"Hm?" Amanda was giggling to herself in the background, and suddenly John wanted this day to be over, to be at home, with his wife and his little daughter and just enjoy the evening with his family.

"I love you."

Despite himself, he had to smile. Me too, he wanted to reply, but Mary had already ended the call. John pursed his lips and stared at the phone in his hand before putting it down and running a hand over his face. Right, he reminded himself. Mrs Walters. One more patient.

At the sound of another knock on his door, he squared his shoulders and mentally readied himself for his final patient today.

~(o)~

Mrs Walters had a persistent head cold, nothing more severe, and so John was on his way out of his office and to his car half an hour later. Lucy and Melissa, the second receptionist, waved at him, and Richard, his colleague, gave him a brief nod, which filled John with relief. Richard had the tendency to greet people with a lax and damp handshake, and that was definitely a habit John could do without, especially since Richard then proceeded to swing his own arm and therefore John's up and down, threatening to dislocate a shoulder.

By the time he got home, Mary would be ready to go, he knew, with Amanda already tucked into her portable baby seat and Mary all but bouncing on her heels in excitement. Even though she made fun of Gemma and Mark and their perfect life sometimes, there was no denying that she enjoyed exchanging gossip with Gemma immensely.

It had started to rain, a soft, but constant drizzle that seemed appropriate for autumn and foggy November days rather than the end of July. John ducked his head in an attempt to shield himself from the misty rain behind his put-up coat collar and fumbled for his car keys in the pocket of his jacket. When a quiet voice addressed him, he still hadn't found the damn things, and the medical journal he had grabbed to read in a calm moment this evening was slowly getting wet.

"John?"

Ah, there. Grabbing the key ring, he removed his hand from his pocket and finally looked up. "Yes?" he had wanted to ask, maybe explain that he was in a hurry, had a family to get home to and that he would be in again tomorrow and they should just consult the receptionists to receive an appointment. The words froze on his tongue when he realised who exactly was standing next to his car, leaning with his back against the passenger door and looking for all intents like he had just climbed out of a cab. Looking as if this was completely expected, nothing out of the ordinary, not surprising at all.

Which maybe, considering that John really should have known better, should have _known_ that next to nothing was impossible with this man, it wasn't.

"Sherlock?" he asked. Standing there, in the rain, car keys in one hand, journal in the other, gaping with his mouth open and absolutely dumb-founded, he suddenly felt like an idiot.

Sherlock actually gave him a smile. "Hello, John."

John's brain, even though it ought to have realised by now that _really_ , with Sherlock Holmes _nothing_ should ever come unexpectedly, not even a not-at-all funny return from the dead in a bloody restaurant and least of all a return from something mundane as casework somewhere in Eastern Europe, felt like it had short-circuited itself. " _Sherlock_?" he repeated dumbly.

Sherlock – same old coat, complete with the ridiculous collar, same old everything, right down to the scarf and the elegant dress shoes – nodded. He didn't, however, say anything else.

John cleared his throat. The key ring, he noticed, was digging into his palm. His best friend was standing in front of him, the best friend he hadn't seen in half a year, the best friend a part of him, the stupid, pessimistic part, had not believed he would see again, and yet he couldn't think of anything to say. "So," he settled on eventually, "you're back then."

Sherlock's gaze flickered towards John. "Yes," he said, quietly, and blinked into the falling rain for a moment. "I'm back."

Of course he was. Of course he was, John had to remind himself. It wasn't like the last time, he forced himself to remember as he swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. Last time, Sherlock had let him believe he was dead, had let John believe that and grieve for his friend for two years, only to then show up again and almost unhinge the life John had managed to build for himself in the meantime. It was different this time, he told himself again, because he'd always known that Sherlock would be back, sooner or later. Once his work in Eastern Europe got too boring and he remembered John again, his former flatmate whom he'd left behind in London.

No, John corrected himself and pushed his simmering anger back down. Sherlock had been sent into exile this time, he hadn't _wanted_ to leave. Hadn't _chosen_ to disappear from John's life.

And now he was back.

Almost despite himself, John felt a smile spread on his face. Laughter bubbled up in him, because, really, Sherlock Holmes. Back in England, back in London. The game was on, probably, and Mrs Hudson was already busy cleaning the flat upstairs, any plans she might have harboured about finding a new tenant forgotten, and soon she would be climbing the walls again because late-night experiments and daily explosions had moved back into 221B Baker Street. Jesus Christ. Just... Sherlock Holmes.

"You seem... well," the same Sherlock Holmes was saying now.

Before John could think and before Sherlock could escape and do more than yelp in surprise and possibly exasperation, John had pulled him into a quick hug, complete with car keys and medical journal. He didn't give Sherlock the chance to squirm away or reprimand John for giving in to _sentiment_ of all things or to start deducing him and telling him about his latest nightmare or eating habits or God knew what, but drew back instead, after two quick claps on the back and with a grin that, idiotically, did not want to leave his face.

"So," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. Sherlock's eyes were glued to his face, scanning him, studying, and John had to glance away. The next comment about how he had gained weight or how his hair had gone even more grey certainly wasn't too far off. "How was Eastern Europe?," he asked and studied his car rather than meet Sherlock's scrutinising glare again. "Any interesting cases? Or... confrontational?"

Sherlock blinked at him for a second, eyes almost comically wide, until John pointed to his face where a yellow-ish bruise covered his left cheekbone just below the eye. "Oh," he made then, as if that giant brain of his had already forgotten about whatever unimportant incident had caused the bruise. Just transport, John found himself remembering. His body was just transport for Sherlock.

"So?" John made again when Sherlock didn't say anything else, his eyes still fixated on John. "Where'd you get that?"

Sherlock twitched, as if startled out of some process of thinking. John had to fight the urge to shake his head and smile at the same time; the vacant expression that had settled on Sherlock's face was so achingly familiar, so typically Sherlock in a way John hadn't even been aware of missing during those past months. He waited for the near-orgasmic "oh" that always followed a major deduction of some kind, but it didn't come. Well. Who knew what was going on in that enormous brain of Sherlock's. He certainly didn't.

"That," Sherlock croaked instead and had to clear his throat immediately afterwards. He gestured with his right hand for a second, then shrugged and cleared his throat again. "It's...," he began. "...nothing. Had a... disagreement with someone, and he..."

"He punched you," John concluded. God. Unbelievable. He _had_ missed Sherlock during his time away, he realised and tried to ignore the stale taste the realisation left in his mouth. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, Sherlock's voice from that devastating night at 221B echoed in his head, but John pushed the memory away.

Instead, he let out a chuckle. A client had punched Sherlock. It wasn't funny, not really. He was a doctor and shouldn't be laughing about people throwing punches, but... he could sympathise, he assumed.

Sherlock directed a curious and long glance at him, and then smiled softly, giving a short chuckle himself.

"God," John breathed and cleared his throat. "It's good to have you back." He frowned. It had been a little over seven months since Sherlock had left for undercover work in Eastern Europe, John recalled. Their goodbye on the tarmac of some airfield had almost felt like a goodbye forever back then, but as soon as he had mentioned his uneasiness about Sherlock's exile to Mary, she had nudged his shoulder almost playfully, for the first time since their sort-of-separation, and told him to stop being so morose. It was Sherlock they were talking about, after all, his usual antics included. And now Sherlock was back. "You're late, though," John added. "Didn't Mycroft say something about _six_ months, not seven?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened at the mention of his older brother and something in his expression changed, but the scowl John was half-expecting failed to appear. Seconds later, his best friend had himself back under control and gave a minuscule shrug. "He was wrong," he replied roughly.

John chuckled again, and even Sherlock's lips curled into a faint smile after a moment's hesitation.

"So," Sherlock began slowly when John remembered the key in his hand all of a sudden, unlocked the car, walked around to the driver's seat and tossed the now soaked journal on the passenger seat. "How is your work going?"

John looked up, startled. Well, that was new. Pleasantries and small talk from Sherlock Holmes. Quite a change from his usual impatient demand for assistance because "there's a case, come on, John, hurry". Not unpleasant, though. "Fine," he replied and braced his forearms against the top of the car. Sherlock's eyes never left his face, scanned him, studied him, but he remained silent.

"A bit mundane sometimes," John added after a few seconds. Mundane, yes, particularly when compared to Sherlock's usual lifestyle. Criminals, murderers, chasing murderers, collecting clues, solving crimes, cases. John pursed his lips. A case. He hadn't had a case in ages, hadn't done anything exciting in ages. Besides becoming a father, of course. For a moment, he wondered what he would say if Sherlock asked him for help with a case right now – which, of course, provoked the question of how long exactly Sherlock had been back, if he had a case already – and even toyed with the thought of replying with "Oh God, yes!", before he remembered that he had agreed to accompany Mary to Gemma and Mark's later. And Amanda. John's heart warmed at the thought of his daughter. A case and a quick adrenaline rush – it was Sherlock, after all – versus time with his little daughter. The adrenaline rush lost to Amanda, of course.

"Mundane," he repeated and pursed his lips again. Too mundane sometimes, but still. "But fine. Really. It's good."

Sherlock nodded once. "Good," he echoed hoarsely and then returned to studying John. Deducing again, probably, mentally cataloguing what John had had for breakfast, when he had last shaved, how often Mary had kissed him today and how many hours he had slept last night, based on the depth of the shadows beneath his eyes or on the lines on his forehead, or that John actually needed to hurry right now if he wanted to be home in time for their meeting with Gemma and Mark. A thousand deductions, whirring through Sherlock's brain, waiting to spill from his mouth without filter.

John had to smile again. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, was back. Really back. Sherlock Holmes, his bloody, mad, brilliant best friend. He gave another chuckle, while Sherlock simply kept watching him. "So you're back for good now?" he asked Sherlock and opened the car door. When Sherlock swallowed visibly and gave a curt nod, John slid down into the seat. "Good," he repeated Sherlock's words from earlier. "See you 'round, then."

Sherlock seemed to nod again. John was about to turn the key and start the car when his best friend's face suddenly appeared in front of the car window. Frowning, John rolled it down. "John," Sherlock said, then swallowed again. "Where are you going?"

John was actually speechless for a couple of seconds, couldn't quite decide whether to be irritated or amused by Sherlock's question. Because yes, of course, now that Sherlock had decided to grace London with his presence again, everyone had to drop everything because Sherlock Holmes was back. Well, John mused silently, he was a father now, and he had responsibilities, a normal, steady life. A visit to Gemma and Mark's today, the pub with Greg tomorrow; Daniel's birthday on Saturday and no work on Sunday, when he and Mary would maybe find the time to discuss the real estate agent's offer and the bloody house Mary wanted them to buy. All the while Sherlock had a case – probably – and craved his attention. The frailty of genius, John, his best friend's voice echoed inside his head. It needs an audience.

It was a grin that chose to appear on John's face eventually. "Jesus, Sherlock," he said. "If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you actually missed me," he added with another smile.

Sherlock seemed to freeze. "John-," he began, but John cut him off. "I'm going home, if that's alright with you," he told Sherlock in mock-exasperation.

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a reply. "But I'll see you?" he wanted to know.

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Unless you up and leave again, yes, you'll see me 'round," he reaffirmed. For tea, to talk, for a case. For a moment, memories of Sherlock and himself in 221B Baker Street, _their_ old flat, where Mrs Hudson brought tea and biscuits and Sherlock drove both them up the wall with his violin, one experiment or another or his frantic search for cigarettes or distraction, flashed through John's mind, and he had to smile again, followed by a quick clench of his heart. Old times, times he had almost believed to be over, but now that Sherlock was back... No, John reminded himself. He had a family now. People who loved him, who needed him.

"Now?" Sherlock wanted to know suddenly.

The question startled John out of his thoughts. He frowned. "You've got a case already, don't you?" John didn't have to wait for the answer, because of course Sherlock would have a case. "No," he had to tell his best friend nonetheless; he chose to ignore the sting of disappointment he felt. "I've got plans."

Sherlock swallowed and gave a curt nod. "Of course," he said, and then repeated: "But I'll see you?"

John had to chuckle again. God, maybe Sherlock had missed him. A little. Maybe. That was, if Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, was even capable of missing someone. "Yes, yes," he agreed. "Say hello to Mrs H from me. And be nice to her!" he added. Before Sherlock had the chance to roll his eyes or reply something, John went on: "You've still got the same mobile phone number?"

At Sherlock's quick, stiff nod, John smiled. "Good," he said. "You know, it's really good to have you back. It's not the same without you."

Sherlock blinked, once, twice, raindrops splashing on his face while the yellow bruise stood out starkly against his skin.

John waited, five seconds, ten seconds, but nothing came from Sherlock. "Okay," he said, trying to brush off Sherlock's lack of reply. This time, he did start the car. "I've got to go. Mary's probably getting impatient."

"Oh," Sherlock made and stepped back. "Of course."

His hair was soaked by now, John realised, as was his coat. "Do you have money for a cab? Or do you need me to take you somewhere?"

A brief look of panic flashed across Sherlock's face. "No, no," he muttered hastily. "It's fine. Fine. It's... I don't want to keep you."

John narrowed his eyes at his best friend. That was a new one, too. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.

Sherlock swallowed, straightened to his full height and nodded. "Of course, John."

Of course. Fine. Transport. Well. "Okay," John said. "See you, then."

"Give my love to Mary," was the last thing he heard before he rolled up the window and put the car into gear.

Sherlock Holmes, back in London. Sherlock meant danger and threats and chaos and had turned John's life upside down more times than anyone else, but he was John's best friend. John had to shake his head as he drove and left the surgery and Sherlock behind. Amanda would finally be able to meet the man who had been meant to be her godfather. And Mary... John had to grin. God, Mary was going to be over the moon.

* * *

 _So, Sherlock finally enters the stage._

 _Thank you for reading._


	4. Sherlock I

_Thank you all for your interest and your kind words. Really. It means so much._

 _Here's the next part for you (and of course, for you, dear Anagogia). Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

Sherlock I

* * *

John had looked so happy.

It was the only thing Sherlock could focus on as he stood in the almost empty car park in front of the clinic where John worked, in London, England, back in London. The thought circulated in his brain, around and around, and wouldn't let go, not since the moment John had stepped out of the door and into the rain, the moment he had looked up, his eyes widening, had addressed Sherlock and had started to _smile_. A broad, open, wide smile that had crinkled the skin around his eyes and straightened the lines on his forehead. John had looked so _happy_.

Everything Sherlock might have prepared to say, might have considered telling John, asking John, had evaporated immediately when he had laid eyes on John, leaving only blankness and a moment of sudden vertigo as his brain had scrambled to catch up with the fact that John was here, he was where John was, he had seen John again.

And then John had pulled him into a hug, had not thrown a punch, not like the last time, even though Sherlock hadn't been able to pull himself together well enough to _explain_ , to apologise, to explain to John why he hadn't been able to text, call, come back earlier; John had hugged him, not punched him, and Sherlock had felt something inside him loosen, or break, despite the pain that had lanced through his chest when John's arms had come in contact with his ribs and that had made it impossible to stifle the sharp yelp that escaped him.

And John had looked good. He had been smiling, and laughing, and although even more grey was in his hair now than there used to be, John had appeared like John was supposed to be, and not like some grief-ridden, pale shadow of the luminance that was John Watson. That John Watson was supposed to be.

That was good, Sherlock told himself as he blinked into the rain that was still falling softly, and the touch of the light drizzle suddenly seemed more tender than anything he had felt in a long time.

He still remembered John from _before_ , before Magnussen, before Christmas, but after Magnussen's office, after the conversation in the empty house. The weariness that had been etched into John's face, the anger and worry and sorrow that had been so obvious in John's every expression were conserved perfectly in Sherlock's brain, a permanent reminder of what he had caused, of the destruction he had brought upon John.

But now, John had looked happy.

And John had smiled, and laughed, and told him "It's good to have you back".

The weight of this realisation threatened to bring Sherlock to his knees all of a sudden, stupidly; his throat closed up and everything blurred for a moment. Because he had made it _back_ ; he was back, and the past was done and over. He had made it back to John, and despite everything, despite what had happened, maybe everything could be alright again.

Sherlock's heart lurched inside of his chest, and for the first time in months he couldn't quite manage to extinguish the flicker of hope that rose in him, the hope that there might be a chance for him. Stupid, so, so stupid, because he was back now, and _of course_ everything would be fine. He would be fine, because why shouldn't he? Stupid.

He swallowed heavily and shoved his unsteady hands into his coat pockets, determinedly, just like he tried to clamp down the darkness from Eastern Europe that had receeded with John's obvious happiness, with simply John, and the memories of John in the months after Sherlock had almost succeeded in destroying his marriage and his life. Focus, he needed to keep focus. Needed to keep it together.

Which should be easy, really, because John had looked well, _seemed_ well, and because Sherlock was being ridiculous. He would be able to visit John, of course, just like before. Like always. Or John could visit him, and they would have tea and John would sit in his usual armchair and roll his eyes at Sherlock's behaviour or boredom or his search for cigarettes, but it wouldn't matter because John would be there, and he would be safe, and Sherlock would be able to see him again. And maybe John's presence, simply John, would manage to push away the dark spots, the stains on Sherlock's mind, allow him to forget the darkness, the blood, the dampness, _pain_ , that had become so familiar to him.

He swallowed again, convulsively, and forced himself to take a deep breath, regardless of the stab of pain it caused in his chest. It was over. No reason to think of it any longer or to let it bother him. Fine, everything was fine. Time to pull himself together.

Mary, Sherlock forced himself to focus, John had mentioned Mary. Mary was getting impatient, he had said. That was good, too, Sherlock's brain told him while he deliberately ignored the minute twinge his heart gave in his chest. If Mary was waiting for John, it meant that they were still together, that they had sorted things out, that John had realised why he had fallen in love with Mary in the first place. Good, that had to be good, his brain concluded again. Because John had looked happy.

He didn't know how long he remained where he was, in the car park in front of John's clinic in a soft London drizzle, how long he kept trying to memorise, perfectly replicate, John's face as he had just seen it. He didn't, and only jerked back to reality at the sound of a car door slamming shut. Despite himself, Sherlock flinched and shivered involuntarily, huddling more deeply into his coat against the light rain and the cold that was seeping into his very bones.

Focus. He needed to focus.

Cab, John had said, as Sherlock managed to recall hazily, he was supposed to take a cab. John had even offered to drive him somewhere, Sherlock remembered vaguely as another shiver gripped him, but his words had barely registered with Sherlock, with his brain so busy to take in the fact that John Watson, the real John Watson, was standing in front of him. If they had, if Sherlock's mind had been able to pay attention to the content of John's words and not just his presence and the sound of his voice, he might even have said yes, thoughtlessly, pathetically, without remembering that John was in a hurry and should not feel obliged to play the role of Sherlock's chauffeur, not ever, not when Sherlock was perfectly capable of calling a cab himself and John was in a hurry and had plans.

He swallowed and straightened his shoulders, but kepts his hands in his coat pockets. Cab, yes, of course. Cab. He needed a cab.

~(o)~

Mycroft, Sherlock thought while the lump that had somehow lodged itself in his throat made swallowing almost impossible, had been very, very thorough. Thorough as usual.

His fingers closed around the keys to his flat, keys Mycroft had ensured he received, as well as his coat, his scarf, clothes for the flight back to London, his old mobile phone, a new wallet and enough money to cover his expenses for months to come. His flat – still his flat, despite everything, still _his_ , somehow – looked the same, even if a bit worse for wear, covered in dust that had had seven months and three weeks to accumulate on furniture and books and belongings.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and took a step into his living room. He wanted to scold himself, laugh at himself for his stupidity when he was surprised that it didn't vanish, that the floor didn't disappear beneath his feet, _naturally_ not, but instead he reached out, rested a flat palm on the doorframe and took a deep, shaky, stabbing breath. Solid, solid wood and flaking paint beneath his skin, and the smell of laundry detergents and soap and flour waving up the stairs from Mrs Hudson's flat in his nose, and the frantic beating of his heart resounding in his ears.

His hand was shaking when he removed it from the doorframe, curled the trembling fingers of his other hand around the keys to his flat and put both of them along with their traitorous unsteadiness back in his coat pockets.

His feet seemed to move to the sofa, _his_ sofa, on their own account. Newspapers, months old by now, were scattered on the table in front of the sofa, and boxes – boxes, flowery décor, Mrs Hudson's, not his – were piled up high next to it. His music stand was in front of one of the windows, exactly where he had left it, that fateful Christmas Day before he and John had headed for his parents' house and then, ultimately, Appledor, a decision which had almost ruined everything Sherlock held dear. Even his violin was resting where it belonged, in its case on the middle board of the shelf right beside the window.

Carefully, slowly, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and reached out with one hand, just to feel the worn leather beneath his fingertips. Everything looked as if he had just left, had left for a case, in a hurry, taking a cab to a crime scene or maybe Scotland Yard where John would be waiting for him already, together with Lestrade, and then they would head to the morgue at Bart's, Bart's where everything had begun, where he had met John, one January afternoon so many years ago. It looked as if he had just left, with every intention to come back, and not as if he had left everything behind to never come back.

Sherlock forced himself to take another deep breath. This time, the pain that shot through his ribs, through his chest, was almost welcome, a reminder that he wasn't dreaming, that this was real, that he was back in London, in his flat in Baker Street, and that he had seen John again. That John had been happy to see him, had not forgotten him, had welcomed him back. A reminder that he had made it _out_ , and that everything was fine now.

Running the fingers of one hand over the familiar fabric of the sofa and clenching the fingers of the other one around his keys in his pockets, Sherlock raised his head to glance around the room, a vain attempt to calm his throbbing heart and pull himself together. Took in the two armchairs, facing each other; the mantlepiece; the skull. The bullet holes in the wall behind him, the yellow paint on the wallpaper that had annoyed Mrs Hudson almost more than the damage the bullets had done. His right shoulder protested at his position, with his head turned to the wall behind him, and the constant dull ache in his ribcage intensified to a hot pulsating.

Despite himself, his mind started replaying images, situations of the past day, the past two days. Blurry impressions of a river and water surrounding him, closing over him; pebbles on a riverbank pressing into his cheek; blood painting the same pebbles red. Then a quick flash of images, slipping through his mind with dizzying speed because he didn't want to remember, didn't need to remember, not now that he was home again; then Mycroft's voice, Mycroft's voice telling him that he was allowed to go home, back to London; a car, one of Mycroft's faceless assistants, his clothes, an airport, a plane, London. One of Mycroft's cars, the need to see John, the only thought on his mind, the clinic where John worked, waiting outside, his heart pounding in his throat, and finally, finally, John, laughing, smiling, happy, telling him that it was good to have him back. Standing in the drizzle for a time while his brain was trying to catch up with everything that had happened, trying to understand that he was no longer in Eastern Europe, that his exile lay in the past. Another car then, a cab this time, someone asking him for directions, John's address being the first thing that had come to his mind before he managed to croak out his own address, 221B Baker Street, so achingly familiar and so close to home. And then Baker Street, the front door, the knocker, not crooked because John hadn't been here in a long time; the door locked, which meant that Mrs Hudson wasn't home; the hallway, empty, but filled with the smell of Mrs Hudson's perfume – the expensive one, the one she only put on when she went out, he had remembered all of a sudden; the staircase, holding memories of a case years ago, of John with a limp, of John leaning against the wall and doubling over with laughter.

For a moment, everything came rushing back with an intensity that drove the breath out of Sherlock's lungs and forced its way past the iron self-composure that had kept him alive: the Magnussen case, the moments on Magnussen's porch, the only way out, his looming exile and subsequent death, the months he had spent awaiting his ultimate execution.

And John.

John.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open after they had closed on their own, without his command. John. His left hand broke contact with the old, familiar, soft leather of the sofa, returned to his coat pocket instead and fumbled for his phone, his old phone Mycroft had made sure that he received. John might text him, and then he needed to hear his phone, needed to be able to reply quickly.

His head was throbbing with a by now familiar rhythmic, pulsating pain, and his eyelids wanted to droop yet again, but he jerked them open. Sleep could wait; the dark could wait. Sherlock took two more deep breaths, inhaled the stale, but familiar smells around him. When John texted, or when Mrs Hudson came home, he needed to be awake to hear it.

He didn't know how long he remained seated on the sofa, simply breathing deeply. Even the stabs of pain each breath shot through his chest, the throbbing of the bruise on his cheek, all the aches his body had accumulated over the course of seven months and three weeks faded in contrast to the realisation that he was back home, back with people he loved, people who in turn seemed to care about him. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John. John. His fingers closed around the mobile that was lying at his side, and he blinked against the tiredness that threatened to envelop him. John. Sherlock blinked again. John. John was happy. With John, even Sherlock might be alright again. His eyes kept falling closed, and there was nothing he could do against it, no matter how hard he tried. But then, he was back home; it might be fine to go to be fine.

He tried to open his heavy lids again, but they wouldn't move, and Sherlock, for the first time in three days, succumbed to sleep.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. If you want to make me a very very happy person, then please let me know what you thought._


	5. John III

_And once again, this chapter took me a while._ _ _I'm so sorry for the delay, but real life has been stressful lately and didn't leave me much time for writing.__

 _Thank you so much for your interest and your reviews - I'm afraid I haven't managed to reply to them this time around, but please know that I read and appreciate every single one of them. So, thank you!  
_

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

John III

* * *

He had been wrong. Mary wasn't over the moon. Mary didn't, in fact, say anything at first.

"Mary?" John had to ask after too many seconds of silence. He risked a glance at his wife in the passenger seat, but it was too dark to make out more than her shadowed profile. "You okay?"

They were on their way back from Gemma – who had fussed over Amanda as usual and had made plans for the house they weren't sure they were really going to buy – and Mark's. It was late, half past ten in the night; Amanda was deeply asleep in her baby seat in the back of the car, and even John was tired, as was Mary, judging by her frequent yawning back in Gemma and Mark's living room.

Between their hurry to make it to Gemma and Mark's in time, Gemma's chattering, Mark offering him a beer every five minutes and his awkward claps on his shoulder – the left one, of course, always the left one – every ten minutes, John had almost forgotten about the news he had and that would certainly come as a surprise for Mary, too.

"Mary?" he asked again when she still didn't say anything.

Mary's hand, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, had made its way to her head; she was rubbing her temple. "He's _back_?" she echoed his words from earlier. "What do you mean, he's back?"

John frowned. "He's back," he confirmed. "Waited in front of the clinic and wanted to work a case with me."

"A case?" Mary repeated. She still sounded utterly dumbfounded, John couldn't help but notice. But then, he assumed, he hadn't fared much better when his exiled – formerly exiled – best friend had suddenly stood leaning against his car, almost as if he had never been gone. Never been exiled for shooting a man in the head in front of a dozen MI5 witnesses, a nagging voice in John's head reminded him, for shooting a man that had intended to blackmail Mary, John's own wife.

John's frown deepened. "A case, yes," he said. "It's what he does, remember? Consulting Detective? Only one in the world? Helps the police when they're out of their debt, which is always?" The memory of his second meeting with Sherlock came to his mind unbidden and made his lips twitch in amusement. Consulting Detective, the only one in the world indeed.

Mary remained quiet. She didn't need to say anything, because John was sure that they were both thinking the same: how could she ever forget Sherlock, John's back-from-the-dead best friend, his best man at their wedding and the man she had shot and almost killed only weeks later?

The atmosphere in the car, so relaxed after their visit to Gemma and Mark, had suddenly grown tense. Eventually, John cleared his throat to disrupt the silence that had spread. "He sends his love, by the way," he said.

"Ah," Mary made and immediately fell silent again.

John cleared his throat again, risking another side-glance at Mary, but his wife kept staring straight ahead into the night, only illuminated by the headlights of their car. John had to supress the urge to sigh.

The next time, it was Mary who spoke up. "I'm sorry, John," she said, her voice soft. She rested a hand on his left thigh, very lightly. "I didn't mean to..." She trailed off.

John pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded. "I know," he said.

After that, Mary seemed to relax, and the tension in the car abated noticeably.

"So," Mary said and gave a giggle that sounded decidedly uneasy, almost nervous to John's ears, "he's back. For good?"

John shrugged and turned into their street. "Seems like it, yes." He had to chuckle. Undercover work somewhere in Eastern Europe – neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had ever specified where exactly – had probably been far too boring for Sherlock. In fact, now that John thought about it, the actual punishment might not even have been the fact that Sherlock _had_ to work undercover cases, but complete and utter boredom in a remote location somewhere far, far away from London and the excitement and adrenaline rush that Sherlock craved so much.

He could sense Mary's headshake rather than see it. "But... how?" she said again. "I mean," she hastily went on, "his sentence, it... is it done?"

Good question, John had to admit as he pulled up in front of their flat. Sherlock hadn't actually said all that much – only that he was back, a little over six months after he had headed towards his exile, but nothing about the how or why or what had been up with the exile in general.

"I think so, yes," he told Mary nonetheless. Sherlock _had_ killed a man, in front of witnesses no less, but then, if anyone could pull some strings and shorten or end or whatever a sentence, it would be Mycroft Holmes, the one who had, according to Sherlock, initially estimated Sherlock's undercover assignment to last about six months. Even back then, on that bloody tarmac, no-one had mentioned what would happen after that first assignment, John realised belatedly. Well, Sherlock's sentence appeared to have been served.

Mary didn't seem inclined to get out of the car yet. "Hm," she made, staring straight ahead. "And he just stood in front of the clinic?"

Another chuckle rose in John's chest. Really, so very typical of Sherlock. At least he had had the decency to wait until the end of John's day at the surgery – it wouldn't have been the first time that Sherlock had stormed into John's office and demand his attention now because there was a case and John's work was boring anyway and John's current patient was a porn-addict with particular interest in bondage and all sorts of kinky role play. John could – unfortunately – still remember that day vividly, along with his own embarrassment at his flatmate's intrusion and deductions and his – former – boss's indignation. "Yes," he answered at last. "As I said, he was waiting for me because of a case."

Mary shook her head and finally looked at John. "I don't believe it."

John unfastened his seatbelt with another chuckle. "You know Sherlock," he said. "I don't think there's anything that's impossible with him."

Mary gave another headshake, clearly still fighting to overcome her surprise. "Oh yes," she muttered quietly, and then, after a few seconds of silence, opened the door and climbed out of the car.

~(o)~

John had assumed that the conversation was over with that, but once they had managed to get Amanda – who had woken up in a rather cranky mood after her extensive nap at Gemma and Mark's and on the way home – to sleep and had fallen into bed themselves, Mary brought Sherlock up again. "So what's he going to do now?"

John shifted and tried to make sense of Mary's question. "Hm?" he made. God, he needed sleep. Work tomorrow again, and then the pub with Greg, and he and Mary still had to talk about the house and the real estate agent's offer...

The lamp on Mary's bedside table was still on, and John squeezed his eyes shut. "What's he going to do now?" Mary asked again. Her mattress moved when she propped herself up on her right elbow; John did his best to stifle a groan and a yawn immediately afterwards.

"Mary," he muttered, still without opening his eyes, "it's in the middle of the night."

Mary didn't react. "Does he expect you to work with him again? I mean, does he think that everything's going to be the way it was before?"

John frowned and finally pushed himself up until he was leaning against the headboard of the bed. "What?" he asked.

Mary was biting her lower lip, a habit that only came through when she was nervous. Or worried. "You know, the way Sherlock does things. Sweep in, overturn the life you've built for yourself, and then disappear again when it gets too boring or when he's in danger of becoming too involved."

"That's not what he did," John protested. Because Sherlock didn't. Of course, he swept in and usually turned John's life upside down, but he didn't just _disappear_. John's throat closed for a moment when he thought back to the two years he had believed his best friend to be dead, the two years he had paid regular visits to an empty grave in a bloody cemetery. But no, he told himself. It wasn't like Mary said; he _knew_ it wasn't like Mary said. Because even if Sherlock did vanish, he did it for a reason, not just because he didn't do people and friends and sentiment. He _knew_ Sherlock, knew his best friend, John told himself, and despite what everyone else said, and in spite of Sherlock's actions, his behaviour, John didn't want to believe that his best friend could in fact be that callous. He shook his head in determination. "That's not how it was."

Mary kept biting her lip, and for a moment something like regret seemed to flash across her face. It was gone in an instant, and John wasn't sure if maybe he had only imagined it. "I'm sorry, John," she said then, her voice calm. "I know he's your best friend, but he's left you behind twice now and didn't even contact you both times. It's not..."

"It's not like he wanted to go to Eastern Europe," John interrupted her. A surge of anger was rising in him, anger he had worked so hard to contain somewhere deep within his chest after everything had initially gone to hell with Mary, after Sherlock had boarded that bloody plane and John was suddenly stuck with his wife, the woman he had fallen in love with and the woman who had lied to him for months and then had almost succeeded in killing his best friend. "He was exiled, remember? Because he shot the man who wanted to blackmail my wife. Because he shot a man to protect you, even though you did nothing but lie to him. To everyone!"

John's heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it drowned out the shocked silence his words had plunged the room into for a few seconds. A few seconds, and then the icy quiet registered and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

But before he had the chance to say anything else, to think about taking back his words, Mary beat him to it. She sat up abruptly, her gaze unwavering. "Oh yes, because I'm the only one who's ever told a lie," she snapped. "But of course I'm only your wife and not your best friend. Because if I were you best friend, I'd be allowed lie to you for two bloody years and then force my way back into your life and everything would suddenly be fine again! Remember that time when he played dead and left you to grieve for him for _two years_?" She took a deep breath and pointed one finger at John. "And don't tell me he didn't have a choice back then either. He did, and he chose to lie to you and leave you behind while he went off to do God knows what."

John's jaw was clenched so tightly that it hurt. "That's not-," he began, but Mary didn't want to hear it. "Oh, save it," she cut him off and lay back down, her back towards him. "I'm tired, and I don't want to hear it."

The lamp next to Mary's side of the bed was switched off and John was left in the dark, still sitting up against the headboard. "Mary," he tried again. Why did she have to bring up the topic now? Why at all?

"No," came the muffled response from his left. "I don't want to hear it."

John pursed his lips and nodded once. "Fine," he replied tersely. "I'm sleeping on the sofa tonight."

~(o)~

John was already up and sitting on the sofa instead of lying on the bloody thing by the time Mary came downstairs the next morning, Amanda figetting with little coordination in her arms. "Morning," he mumbled and cocked his head to the left, trying in vain to get his neck muscles to relax after another night on the uncomfortable, short, bloody sofa.

Mary gave him a quick look, then renewed her hold on Amanda and told their daughter in a loud whisper: "We could have told Daddy that his neck would be stiff if he slept on the sofa again, couldn't we, darling?"

Amanda produced a blubbery giggle in response and kicked with her romper suit-clad feet.

John watched as Mary bobbed their daughter up and down and approached him. "Say hello to Daddy, darling," she mumbled into Amanda's soft blonde hair. "What do you think, is Daddy still mad at Mummy?"

When Amanda reached out for John with her chubby arms out of reflex, he took her from Mary and settled her on his lap. Amanda squirmed, of course, and grabbed a fistful of his tee. John couldn't contain a smile at his daughter's insistent tugging. "Daddy's not mad," he said finally and glanced up at Mary.

She seemed to study him and Amanda on his lap for a few seconds before yawning and turning to the kitchen. "God, I need coffee," she announced, already opening the cupboard in which they kept the coffee beans. "John?"

"Hm?" he made, bouncing Amanda up and down on his knee.

"Coffee?" Mary asked. She smiled at him from the kitchen, two mugs in her hand, and John nodded.

"Listen, Mary," he began a few minutes later, the coffee maker and Amanda blubbering in the back. "I-"

"I know," she cut him off. Leaving the coffee to itself, she came over to the sofa and sat down next to him. Her fingers were playing with a loose thread in his dressing gown, but her eyes were trained on him. "It's just... I thought we were over that," she added quietly. No need to explain what exactly 'that' was supposed to mean. 'That' was just... everything. The tension between them that had had time to build from the moment Sherlock had forced Mary into a confrontation with John up until Amanda's birth, the mistrust, the frequent arguments and, initially, occasional loud shouting matches. "I thought we were _okay_ again, that we..." She trailed off and smiled briefly at John. "And now Sherlock's back, and that's great, really, but..."

John couldn't suppress a sigh. But Sherlock was Sherlock, and nothing with him was ever easy. Even though he still didn't agree with what Mary had said the previous night, even though he didn't want to agree with her, he had to admit that much.

Instead of an answer, he pulled her close and kissed her softly. "So we're good then?" he wanted to know while Amanda seemed to have had enough and had started keening quietly.

Mary nodded and relaxed against him. "We're good."

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. I'd be very excited about reviews.  
_


	6. Sherlock II

_Since the last chapter took so long (much longer than I'd ever intended), here's another one - to make up for the delay.  
_

 _I've said it before, but still: Thank you all for your interest and your patience._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

Sherlock II

* * *

When Sherlock woke, slowly, he didn't, at first, know where he was. He didn't know what had woken him, nor why he had fallen asleep in the first place. The pounding of his head matched the fast beating of his heart in rhythm, and his heavy body seemed to consist of nothing else but aches and pain and irrational, illogical weariness. He could feel the remainder of cold sweat on his forehead, on the skin of his face, and blurred, distorted images of Serbia and a river and the muzzle of a gun pointed at his head lingered in his mind, close to the surface but still sufficiently far away so that he could push them back and force his brain to concentrate on his surroundings.

It was bright around him, even despite his closed eyes, far too bright to be the basement in Serbia, and he was lying, slumped over uncomfortably, on a soft surface. Leather, his fingers were able to gauge eventually, worn, soft, warm leather. His lids were leaden weights over his eyeballs, and a part of him was certain that, if he managed to open his eyes, they would show him only concrete and shackles and the walls of his prison cell, and the leather he could feel beneath him and the fabric against his throat and arms that felt so much like his coat, so _much_ , would turn out to be nothing more but an illusion, created by his own mind to torture him and lure him into tentative but false hopefulness.

He inhaled, a shaky breath, and straightened, still with his eyes shut tightly. His ribs protested even at the slow movement, and, along with the air that rushed into his lungs, stabbing pain surged up in his chest and through his ribcage. He froze, instinctively, one hand digging into the fabric that was resting along the skin of his arms, the other clutching the worn leather beneath his palm, and waited for the hot wave of pain to pass, to fade away and be overlayered by adrenaline and the need to keep going, to push his body further because if he didn't, he wouldn't even make it to six months, let alone back home again.

The stabbing sensation did fade, but not completely, blended in with the throbbing, burning sensations all over the rest of his body and formed a cacophony of aching limbs and heavy, heavy weariness. He took another breath, braced his forearms on his thighs and finally opened his eyes.

It was still the living room of 221B Baker Street, London, that surrounded him, _his_ living room, and everything still looked exactly as it had done in the evening, only hours before. The sofa – worn leather beneath his hands – did not dissipate in daylight, nor did his coat that he was indeed wearing dissolve into thin air or turn into ragged, dirt-stained clothes.

Of course not.

"Stupid," he told himself, he was being stupid. The memories of John yesterday were perfectly clear in his brain, conserved forever, and an immeasurably more accurate impression of John than anything he had or would ever be able to come up with on his own.

He was back home; there was absolutely no reason at all to doubt that fact or harbour memories of his exile, his second stay in Eastern Europe, no reason for his transport's stupid, annoying shakiness or the doubts in his mind. He inhaled deeply again, focussed on the pain that flared up in his ribcage this time and forced himself to keep it together. Because everything was _fine_ and he was being absolutely ridiculous.

His hands were still shaking when he got to his feet, refused to obey logic, so he clenched them into fists and shoved them into his coat pockets. His throat had narrowed, irrationally, and the silence around him suddenly made it hard to breathe. The absence of sound, the absence of others, of John, threatened to crush him, uproot him because for a moment, only the empty living room around him, nothing but furniture and wood and dust, wasn't enough to keep him grounded, to convince him that everything was real and not a figment of his brain.

Then his eyes fell on his mobile phone, discarded on the sofa; he snatched it, pocketed it, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and finally straightened and made his way downstairs.

~(o)~

He was back in front of the clinic where John worked not even one hour later.

He had left 221B, empty, completely empty, with not even Mrs Hudson there, after he had woken, had hailed a cab and had, as if out of reflex, choked out John's address before he had remembered that John would be at work and not at home.

And now here he was, standing in the carpark again while John's words, telling him that it was good that he was back, were running through his head in a loop. Plans, a different version of John's voice kept saying, he had plans, other plans, was in a hurry and certainly didn't have time for Sherlock and his antics right now, but Sherlock ignored it, concentrated on John from yesterday instead, on John who hadn't punched him, but had welcomed him back, seemed happy, and happy to see him. And although John was at work now, couldn't leave, probably, wasn't supposed to, because John had a normal job, Sherlock didn't need much time, just a few minutes , to say hello, to get out everything he had forgotten to say yesterday, to ask after Mary and their health and their lives, and...

Sherlock swallowed, hands still clenched to fists inside of his coat pockets. It was stupid; he was being stupid, he told himself, because he had come and disturbed John at work so many times before, and John had always rolled his eyes and maybe laughed at Sherlock's excitement over one case or another, but then had always accompanied Sherlock anyway. Apart from the time after Mary, after Magnussen's office, a traitorous part of Sherlock's brain kept whispering, but then, John hadn't shown much interest in anything back then. Not now, though, because now John had looked happy and hadn't thrown punches in Sherlock's direction, had told him that it was good to have him back.

Before his brain could come up with more ridiculous doubts and before his heart could double its already frantic pace, Sherlock forced his legs to move, to step towards the entrance to the clinic.

The receptionist – blonde, but dyed, obviously, and that not even very well, darker roots showing, in a relationship, judging by her expensive necklace and the matching earrings, but not married – looked up and put on a clearly practised smile. "Hello," she said. "What can I do for you?"

It was a simple question, and yet Sherlock found himself faltering. "Doctor Watson," he croaked, had to swallow and did his best to control his breathing. "Is he... in?"

The receptionist – Lucy, her name tag read – returned her gaze to the screen of her computer. "Do you have an appointment?" she wanted to know.

Appointment. Of course. Appointment. Mycroft – respectively his ever faithful PA in his place – had insisted that Sherlock get checked out before leaving Serbia and heading back to London, to make sure that his ribs were only badly bruised and not broken, that his knee was only sprained and bruised, without any torn ligaments, that nothing was infected, that his collision with a rock in a raging river had led to a concussion at most and not a fracture or a haemorrhage. The doctor there – English, too, one of Mycroft's staff – had kept frowning and groping and putting pressure on bruises and cuts, and it had taken Sherlock every inch of self-control he still possessed to keep from flinching or throwing up at every touch. For a second, only a second, he had allowed himself to indulge in the image of John doing all the probing and checking, but had then managed to get a grip on himself. Because if John had been the one to examine him, that would have meant that John was in Serbia, wasn't safe, and that wasn't ever supposed to happen. Not on his watch. Not again.

When the receptionist repeated her question, Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts. Right. Appointment. "No," he managed to reply, "I'm not here for... I'm fine. I just need to talk to him. Just a few minutes."

A frown had settled on her forehead. "I'm afraid he's busy, and if you don't have an appointment... You could wait and I could try to squeeze you in..."

Sherlock swallowed dryly. It was difficult with how tight his throat suddenly felt. "Yes, that... that's...," he stammered. Pathetic, a voice inside his head told him, pathetic, while he tried, desperately, to wrestle back control over his body, his rebellious transport. He needed to pull himself together. "That would be good."

The receptionist – Lucy – narrowed her eyes at him. "If you'd take a seat in the waiting room," she told him and pointed towards a half open door.

The room had started spinning around Sherlock, a whirl of colours and light, and something was pressing down on his chest. "Yes," he choked out. Waiting room, good, that was good. Waiting room.

He didn't wait if the receptionist had anything else to say, made his way over to the door leading to the waiting room instead. His left knee was throbbing with each step, and his chest was so tight that it hurt to breathe, and it didn't disappear, no matter how often he told himself that this was stupid, ridiculous, that there wasn't any reason why something should still be wrong with him, should be wrong with him now that he was back home, after his exile was over, after John had looked so _happy_ yesterday.

His legs were shaking, barely able to hold up his weight, when he allowed himself sag into one of the empty chairs in the waiting room. He took a breath, as deep as possible, regardless of his sore and bruised ribs, and did his best to regain control over his transport. Because he was fine, back in London, with John, absolutely fine, and yet his body seemed to think otherwise. Stupid, Sherlock told himself, because it was over. Over.

By the time Lucy, the receptionist, came back in to address him, Sherlock had his jaw clenched tightly, but when she informed that Doctor Watson would see him now, he got to his feet without stumbling, and managed to almost stop his knees from shaking, although his heart was still hammering and his head kept pounding heavilly.

The receptionist showed him to a closed office door, then knocked once and even opened the door for him. Sherlock stepped in, slowly, and felt the air rush out of his lungs in one great exhale. Which was stupid, again, because it was only John, sitting behind a desk, focussed on the screen of a computer, only John, John he had seen not even twenty-four hours ago, and it was ridiculous to feel so relieved, so light-headed for a moment, like he was able to breathe again, just because he was standing in front of John's office. It was only John, but at the same time it wasn't, could never be, because nothing about John was simple, or mundane, or deserved the attribute of 'only'.

John looked up, a frown forming on his face, followed by a quick half-grin. "I thought it was you," he said.

Only then did Sherlock manage to suck in a sharp gasp of air, and the lightheadedness, dizziness receeded again. "John," he croaked.

John's eyes returned to his computer for a moment, before he pushed his chair back a little and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't have much time," he said. "So, what is it?"

Sherlock could only blink at him.

"The case," John elaborated after a few seconds. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Case, Sherlock's brain echoed while the word alone, the memories it held of his time away, his exile, was enough to let nausea rise in the pit of his stomach. Case, why would John think of a case now, why a case? Was there something he needed to solve, something he was supposed to work on; was he supposed to have a case? "Case?" he finally managed to ask hoarsely.

John's eyebrows rose and he uncrossed his arms. "You don't have a case," he concluded, pursing his lips. It took a few moments – moments Sherlock used to study John, the lines on his face that had deepened in contrast to yesterday, the bags under his eyes that hadn't been that noticeable yesterday, the way he held his head stiffly, a telltale sign of a night on the sofa, too short even for John and uncomfortable – until John sighed, leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock's attention snapped to whatever John was about to say while his heart kept racing, stupidly. "I know you're bored," John said, "but…"

Bored. Sherlock almost wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that no, he wasn't bored, that he had only wanted to see John and talk to him, but before he could, before he had the chance to, John already went on: "But I'm at work. We've talked about this, remember? You can't just... barge in here and expect me to get up and leave and entertain you."

Busy, the receptionist's words flashed through Sherlock's brain all of a sudden, she had told him that John was busy. And yet Sherlock hadn't listened, hadn't cared, hadn't paid attention that John was at work, had a job to do, and had insisted on seeing him nonetheless. He swallowed dryly and didn't, for a moment, know where to look. Because John had confirmed it, had told Sherlock that he didn't have much time because John was at work, was busy, and absolutely didn't need Sherlock to _barge in_ for no reason at all, and now Sherlock was standing here, his heart hammering and his throat narrowing, and couldn't even offer an appropriate explanation for why exactly he was here.

He needed to pull himself together, now. "John," he said, then had to clear his throat.

John gave him a quick glance, and the lump in Sherlock's stomach loosened ever so slightly when the corners of John's mouth pulled up in a weak grin. "Jesus, you really haven't changed," John muttered, then heaved another sigh. "I'll call you, alright? Just... not right now."

Sherlock managed a nod and kept staring at John for a few more seconds, while John had already turned back to his computer screen. "Today?" he finally asked and ignored the part of his mind that told him that he should leave already, that John didn't have time now, that John was busy and that he shouldn't bother John.

John's gaze flickered back to him. "Hm?" he made and picked up the receiver of his phone.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied and took a step backwards. "Just..."

"Yes, Lucy," John was saying now, "you can send in Mr Hastings." John ended the call and frowned at his computer. "You were saying?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock swallowed, tightening his fists inside of his coat pockets. "You'll call me?"

John nodded once. "Yes, I'll call you," he muttered and looked up when a knock sounded on the closed door. "Sorry," he added and gave Sherlock another smile. "But you've got to go now."

Sherlock had to blink to keep his vision from blurring too badly. Of course, John had work to do, was busy. Of course. "Of course," he croaked and almost stumbled into Lucy, the receptionist, and an elderly man. Patient, John's patient. "Sorry," he managed to mutter, made another step backwards, and then the door closed in front of him, leaving John with his work and his patient, and Sherlock wanted to curse himself.

~(o)~

He didn't, once he had left John's clinic, know where to go. Something in him told him to turn around, walk back into John's office and just _stay_ there, where he could see John, hear his voice and just be in John's presence, but that was stupid, of course. Because John was busy, didn't have time for Sherlock, didn't need Sherlock to bother him, and there really wasn't any solid reason for Sherlock to be with John right now. No case, no reason, nothing, just the irrational _need_ to not be alone, to be close to John, his best friend, because somehow, his brain didn't quite manage to grasp the concept that he was back home, that he was not drifting in an icy current, lungs filled with water, or lying on the rocky shore of the same river, as he, by all rights, ought to be.

Sherlock took a quick breath, ignored the pain in his chest, and straightened his shoulders. He was fine, absolutely fine; his exile was in the past, done and over, and he was fine. Absolutely fine. He just needed something to distract him, to help him forget, leave everything behind. Needed John, a part of his mind insisted, and his heart clenched. John, his best friend.

But no. Of course not. John was at work, Sherlock forced himself to recakll silently, was therefore busy, and should not have to deal with Sherlock's unnecessary antics anyway. 221B, his flat, he should simply go back to his own flat, he told himself, one time, a second time, but his body did not move.

Friends, John's voice whispered in his head all of a sudden, friends protect people. Three gunmen. Three bullets. Three bullets.

Sherlock sucked in another sharp breath and, clenching his teeth, concentrated on the pain in his ribcage. Friends protect people, John's voice whispered again. Because he had friends, didn't he? Friends. John was busy right, had work to do, but Sherlock had other friends, too, maybe. Friends protect people.

With a final glance towards the clinic where John worked, towards where John was, Sherlock stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against, managed to flag down a passing cab and told the cabbie to take him to New Scotland Yard.

~(o)~

Detective Inspector Lestrade, it read on the name plate next to the door Sherlock was standing in front of and staring at. Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Lestrade who, in contrast to John, had not been present at Magnussen's house that day when Sherlock had almost managed to cost John everything, his life, his family, everything. Lestrade who did not know about Mary, or Magnussen, about the murder Sherlock had committed, who only knew of work, somewhere in Eastern Europe, and not of Sherlock being exiled.

Detective Inspector Lestrade.

With a shaky inhale, Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped into the office he had been to so many times before. Lestrade, Detective Inspector Lestrade, his friend, maybe, possibly, was sitting there, behind his desk, his hair longer than it used to be, had put on some weight, was looking up, his eyes widening a fraction, widening…

Observations jumped at Sherlock all of sudden, so many observations, useless ones, so different from what he had needed during his exile. It's a drugs bust, a younger version of Lestrade informed Sherlock while Sherlock's brain was doing its best to grasp the situation and found itself whirring and whizzing, uselessly.

"Ah," Lestrade said, and a grin spread on his face. Grin, way of expressing positve emotion, to… "I was wondering how long you'd take to show up here."

Show up here… Memories of his own empty, cold living room, drenched in silence, attacked Sherlock, stupidly, so he shoved them away, focussed on Lestrade, Lestrade's office, the cup of coffee on the desk.

"Mary called Molly and told her you were back, and Molly told me," Lestrade added, his voice floating around Sherlock.

He needed to say something, needed to answer, needed to react. Sherlock swallowed, willed his voice to work. "I…," he croaked, then cut himself off. First name, Lestrade had a first name, and he got it wrong, all the time, but not this time. Needed to remember. Needed to get it right this time. Gavin, George, Geoffrey, Gene, Grant…

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked and dropped the pen he had been playing with. "You know, I didn't think you'd hug me, or anything, but that you'd simply ignore me…"

No, no, no, wrong. Wrong, absolutely wrong.

"Gary," Sherlock managed and even succeeded in keeping a traitorous tremor out of his voice.

Lestrade's smile flickered, the tiniest bit. "Greg," he corrected. "Well, couldn't expect you to get that right, I guess."

Greg, of course, Greg, not Gary. Greg. "Greg," Sherlock repeated and clenched his trembling right hand around his mobile phone, hidden in his coat pocket. He was being ridiculous. Ridiculous to be stammering around in Lestrade's office, particularly when he was back and therefore supposed to be fine, just fine.

"Christ," Lestrade said and ran a hand through his hair. "I really didn't think you'd be back so soon. Got boring, Eastern Europe, eh? I bet you've missed the real cases."

Boring. Images of the barrel of a gun against his head flashed up unbidden, combined with memories of cold water, lashing around him, pulling him under the surface.

No. No, no, no. Not this, not _now_.

"I…," he began again, but Lestrade interrupted him, getting up from his chair. "Well, I've got one," he announced, the grin still on his face, and grabbed his coat. "Officially, it's a suicide, the second one in the same family, but there's something fishy about it. I'll email you the details later, okay?"

Sherlock blinked. "One what?" he asked.

Lestrade froze, the coat he had been about to put on suspended in mid-air. "Well," he said. "A case. That's why you're here, isn't it? I mean, you wouldn't've bothered to come just to see me."

A case. John had assumed he had a case, and so did Lestrade now. Why was he supposed to have a case, to want a case? Sherlock swallowed and stared at the wall behind Lestrade's head instead of Lestrade. "I… I did, actually," he managed. Social calls, visiting each other, that was what friends did, wasn't it? Wasn't that what he was supposed to do, too? As a friend?

Lestrade chuckled and finally finished putting on his coat. "Good one, there," he said, and Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Thing is, though," Lestrade went on, "I've still only got one case I can let you in on, no matter how charming you're trying to be."

He picked up a package from his desk and stuffed it into his pocket. "Nicotine patches," he said, following Sherlock's gaze. "Trying to quit."

"Ah," Sherlock managed and followed Lestrade to the door of his office, stiffly, since his legs felt strangely numb.

"So," Lestrade spoke up again, running a hand through his hair, "I'll email you the files, just take a look at them. And don't complain that it's boring – it's that one, or no case at all."

"I didn't…," Sherlock began, frowning. He hadn't come for a case. Didn't even know even know whether he wanted one. Did not believe that he wanted to think about dead bodies, crimes, murder, violence, he wanted to… he didn't know. Stupid, he scolded himself for this repeated onset of sentimentality, and yet didn't quite manage to suppress the useless twinges his heart gave now and then. He blinked again, his eyes burning. Pathetic, a voice in his head told him, so pathetic. What a sorry sight, the great Consulting Detective so desperate for a bit of attention from his friends that he disturbed them both at work and then didn't even want to do what he was supposed to do. Pathetic.

"Still," Lestrade said and grinned again, "it's good to have you back."

The voice shut up, for a moment, and Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest again while his throat narrowed.

Lestrade's brown eyes scanned him quickly before he let the door to his office fall shut. "Maybe you should get a good night's sleep first before you start investigating," he muttered, a crooked smile on his face. "You look a bit worse for wear. A client got angry, eh?" he asked, gesturing towards the bruise.

Instictively, Sherlock pressed both of his arms closer to his torso, as if to hide the bruises that were covered by his clothes. The river was gushing again, the rock making contact with his face, drowning everything in blackness for a few heartbeats. "Yes," he croaked.

Putting his collar up, Lestrade nodded. "Right," he said, "gotta go. Appointment with the new Chief Superintendent. See you, then."

It would have been appropriate to reply something, to thank Lestrade – Greg, Greg, not Lestrade – for the case or wish him good luck, anything at all, Sherlock knew, but he couldn't force a single word past his lips, and by the time he had managed to clear his throat and ease the tightness in his windpipe a little, Lestrade was long gone.

He had been polite, or had tried to, hadn't he, Sherlock's brain reiterated while he remained standing in front of Lestrade's office and tried to do his best to ignore the way his heart kept clenching in his chest. He had been polite, and Lestrade... Lestrade... Sherlock cramped the fingers of his right hand around his mobile, hidden in his coat pocket. Lestrade had offered him a case. Which was good, of course, because cases meant normality, normal life, a proper case for Scotland Yard. Together with John, possibly, just like always. Just like... before everything.

Loud laughter from one of the desks a few feet away pulled him back to reality, to where he was standing in front of Lestrade's office. Sherlock flinched, despite himself, shot a hasty look at the group of people gathered there – Detective Sergeants, if at all, obviously, and most of them used to spending all their time inside of an office without ever seeing a criminal or any kind of action – then inhaled against the knot that had formed in his stomach and mentally scolded himself for his ridiculous jumpiness.

Because he was fine, absolutely fine. He had a case, Lestrade had not punched him either – still, his voice echoed in Sherlock's head, it's good to have you back – had given him a case. Expected him to solve the case because that was what he did. Because that was what he was good at.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock straightened as much as his sore ribs allowed and left New Scotland Yard. He had work to do.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	7. Sherlock III

_Hello again. Unfortunately, I am seemingly incapable of regular updates. Apologies for this, but most of all, thank you all (hopefully, some of you are still interested?)._

 _I know, I know, poor Sherlock. I hope I've mentioned it before - there'll be angst to come._

 _Enjoy (nonetheless)._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

Sherlock III

* * *

He returned to 221B after his visit to New Scotland Yard and Lestrade's office. Mrs Hudson's flat was still silent as Sherlock stood in front of her door and just listened and breathed, and although the fresh odour of expensive perfume indicated that she had been here at some point while he had been out, everything was empty again, empty and void.

His very bones seemed to weigh him down by the time he had made it up the stairs, to his living room, and his tiredness, his exhaustion had settled heavily on his mind and body equally. Sherlock sank into his armchair, opposite of John's, and even allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment when the familiar smooth surface enfolded him. His head had started pounding viciously during the cab ride back to Baker Street, and the utter silence around him wasn't helping, inviting darkness and echoes of his time in Eastern Europe to flood his mind.

No, Sherlock thought and jerked his eyes back open. No. Not now. Not ever.

The fingers of both his hands, he noticed with something akin to surprise, had dug deeply into the armrests of his chair while his heart was racing in his chest and his lungs heaving with fast, shallow breaths that jarred his sore ribs.

Forcing his breathing back under control, he shook his head, once, twice, to clear away the memories that wanted to rise up all of a sudden, encouraged by the lack of sound, of movement around him as well as his weariness, lowering his guard and weakening his self-control. "No," he repeated, out loud this time.

No, because he was being ridiculous, and he had work to do.

Consciously forcing himself to relax his fingers, Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his coat pocket. Files, Lestrade would email the case files to him, and he was supposed to take a look at them, find some clues, solve the case. Solve the case. Solve the case, he could do that, Sherlock repeated to himself as he logged into his mail account, feeling his heart clench unexpectedly when he entered his old password, saved somewhere in the back of his brain, and it still worked.

Fifty-seven new emails, the programme told him, but nothing from Lestrade, no case files, he realised as soon as he started skimming through the mails.

Appointment with the new chief superintendent, Sherlock recalled Lestrade's words. Of course, Lestrade would be busy, hadn't found the time to send the files yet. Of course.

His fingers tightened their grip on his mobile reflexively when he felt his throat constrict and his heart speed up ever so slightly. No files meant no distraction, no distraction meant nothing to concentrate on, to focus his restless mind on, and nothing to focus on meant memories of Eastern Europe, meant a return into the abyss that he had left behind and that nonetheless was preserved in his brain, resurfacing as dark images of blood and violence and a gun against his head and finally a dark, cold, racing river whose waters pulled at him, tore at him, threatened to swallow him and drown him and never let him go.

No. Not now. No. Sherlock shook his head and blinked once, twice to clear away the images that were flooding him, and then forced his eyes to focus on his phone. John, maybe John had texted him, or had called him, or he could text John.

He was busy, John had said, didn't have time, was at work and couldn't just leave, but a text wouldn't disturb him, wouldn't keep him from more important things. Text, a text was fine, Sherlock told himself. No calling; he couldn't bother John, not when he was at work, but a text would be fine. Fine.

His hands were, to his annoyance, trembling when he started typing something about Lestrade's case because John expected him to have a case, because the case would surely interest John, and for a moment Sherlock allowed the question of how long it had been since he had last texted someone to rise in him. A text to John, probably, one exile ago. A lifetime ago.

Sherlock had to close his eyes against the sudden onslaught of pain and memories and weariness, and hot, biting nausea climbed up in his throat. He could still see the face of the man that had been shot while Sherlock had been talking to him one misty night in some back alley in some town somewhere in Croatia, could still see the surprise conserved on his features even in death, could still feel the spray of warm blood on his own skin and his momentary panic, his need to get away, away, away, because if they got him, too, there was worse, so much worse, in store for him than a bullet clean through the throat. They hadn't got him then, and he had lived to see another day, another day to work on uncovering the depths of a network of human trafficking and prostitution and remnants of Moriarty's web, another day closer to the end of his exile. Closer to his death. The memory of the heavy weight of the knife in his hand when two of the thugs had finally confronted him was still fresh in his mind, as well as the sound of steel hitting flesh and flesh hitting flesh, and the blood, and the pain. It should have ended in Serbia, he realised in a split-second of absolute clarity, because he should never have brought all this bloody baggage home to John. Had no right to, in fact. It should have ended in Serbia.

And then the moment was over, and he was back in his living room, in 221B Baker Street, London, clinging to his mobile and familiar leather and forcing his eyes to focus on John's armchair opposite of his because it hadn't ended, because he had managed to hang on, to not give up, because he had made it _back_ , to John, to his friends, because he wasn't on his own any longer. He was back, and finally, finally, he might be able to find some rest, some peace, distraction. To leave it all behind, forget it all.

Sherlock swallowed drily, took a deep breath and turned back to his phone to check his inbox again.

~(o)~

Not even two hours later, Sherlock found himself inside of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, his body growing heavier with pain and exhaustion with each step he took. Pills, he should have swallowed another one of those pills that numbed the worst stabs and throbs his aching muscles and joints and bones sent through his transport, but the silence in his flat, his living room had made it almost impossible to think clearly. He had wanted to call John, text John again, had been itching to call John and reassure himself that everything was still fine, that it was still real, that he was still back and not in a dark cell in Eastern Europe any longer where his mind would be able to fool him into believing that he had managed to escape, but he couldn't. No matter how muched he longed to simply hear John's voice, to convince himself that this was real, not a figment of his feverish imagination, he knew he shouldn't, not when John was at work. Busy, John had said, appointment, Lestrade's words; Mrs Hudson's flat still empty, so Sherlock had gone to the one other place he could think of, to the one person who had always mattered, had always counted and who knew him, had always known him.

The morgue of Bart's was exactly as Sherlock remembered it when he entered, his hands, shaking again, tightened into fists inside of his coat pockets. Molly, Molly Hooper, still had exactly the same working place, and his weary, stiff legs carried him towards her own little lab, almost mechanically.

His eyes closed against his intention when he found her there, without her lab coat, singing quietly to herself, and for a moment he simply allowed himself to suck in the peacefulness of Molly Hooper, singing in her lab, next to a morgue.

A morgue.

By all rights, he should be one of the corpses on her slabs, Sherlock thought not for the first time; by all rights he should be dead, a cold corpse in a torrent, a decaying body on a riverbank, a bullet embedded in his skull. He had not expected to make it out, to survive his exile, and there it was again, the stupid but oh so persistent doubt whether he actually had, or whether he was dreaming, in a feverish daze, phantasising while his body was failing and his life was ending. Stupid, he wanted to tell himself, to force himself to become aware of how stupid, how ridiculous he was being, but not even that worked any longer.

And then Molly Hooper, who had mattered, always, turned around, dropped the test tube she had been holding in her right hand, and Sherlock froze.

"Sherlock!" she yelped. "God, you startled me!"

Sherlock took a breath. Pill, he thought when his ribs protested again, he should have taken another pill. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Sorry, that was appropriate, wasn't it? Appropriate. "Molly," he croaked then and studied her carefully, slowly. Molly Hooper, who had saved his life, more than once. You need to fall on your back, she repeated, her voice hazy and far away, but still recognisable. "How...," he began, had to clear his throat. Held his breath. Stupid, so stupid. "How are you?"

A smile appeared on her face – smile, good, good – and she gave a faint shrug. "I'm well," she answered, directing a glance at her watch. "And late," she added and gave another smile, flustered this time. "I need to finish this before I leave. I have a date later this evening, you know."

"Oh," Sherlock made. He swallowed, averted his gaze, suddenly didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry, then," he repeated.

Molly, about to stoop down and sweep up the broken pieces of the test tube, stopped in her movement and glanced up at him. "What about you," she asked quietly. "You look a bit... That must have hurt," she ended lamely, nodding towards his cheek.

Water splashed around him again for a moment, pulled at him, pulled him beneath the surface, but this time, his mind seemed to run out of energy to replicate what had happened only three, four days ago and suddenly came up with the urge to sit down, to close his eyes and sleep, with John there, John in his armchair, reading the paper and sipping tea, John.

"I'm fine," he said instead, force something akin to a smile on his face and swallowed.

"Good," Molly replied and got to her feet again, the shards a neat heap on the floor. "That's good."

There was a weight on his chest, pressing down, resting there heavily, while Sherlock could think of nothing else but his utter exhaustion for a moment as the world blurred around him. Molly's lab, fogging, obscuring. But real, real.

"Is there anything you need?" Molly asked then, and Sherlock's resolve to forget everything, not mention it, not to think of anything because he shouldn't, shouldn't bother his friends with his mistakes, his failure, almost crumbled. "I could give you toes," she added," or a tongue. Day after tomorrow, I've got tomorrow off."

Toes, or a tongue. Case files. Plans. Sherlock swallowed again and dug his fingernails into his palms. "No," he muttered. John, he needed John. He'd be fine with John.

"Okay," Molly said and gave him another smile. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I've got to finish this. Date later, you know. Just... call me if you need anything else, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock repeated, Molly giving him another smile, turning back to her microscope and another test tube. He stayed where he was for a few more seconds, blinked with burning eyes and tried to summon the energy to move, to return to his empty flat.

He inhaled, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then forced himself to straighten. Files, Lestrade could have sent the files to him by now, and he could focus on that, on the case, work, do something useful while he waited for John to call or text or visit.

~(o)~

The door to Mrs Hudson's flat was closed when he returned to 221B, with heavy, dragging steps; everything was eerily silent and yet Sherlock hesitated before turning towards the stairs. Hesitated, because it had been so long since he had seen Mrs Hudson, because England would fall if Mrs Hudson ever left Baker Street, and because of three gunmen, three bullets. Because he wanted to see her, wanted to convince himself, even after John, and Lestrade, and Molly, and John, that she was really here, that she was real, but couldn't, not if she wasn't home.

Ridiculous, he told himself, he was being ridiculous again, and completely irrational. Taking a shallow breath, he stepped forwards, to Mrs Hudson's door, pushed the handle, opened the door, not locked, not locked, entered Mrs Hudson's small corridor, but not without wiping his feet – still in the shoes Mycroft had provided for him only two days and yet worlds ago – on the doormat. The smell of perfume, more intense than it had been in his own living room, wavered through the air – different from the one he was used to, but probably expensive, judging by the rich flavour and the intensity of the smell, which meant that Mrs Hudson had plans, too, was going out, had gone out, was meeting someone, and not Mrs Turner from next door.

Sherlock swallowed, concentrated on the hallway in front of him and not on the countless deductions his brain was spiralling into, deductions that were nonetheless better than the images, memories his mind was leaking almost constantly now. "Hello?" he called out, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. "Mrs Hudson?"

He could almost picture her, appearing from somewhere, clad in the lilac dress he knew so well and a pink apron and wearing a new necklace, hands in her hips and an expression of familiar exasperation on her face. He could picture her, almost, but it didn't change the fact that her flat was empty, void of Mrs Hudson, cold and dark.

Sherlock didn't move for a few seconds, let the tiredness that had been hovering over him for hours, days, enfold him and didn't even try to fight the tremble that was taking hold of him once more. Heaviness had settled back on his chest, and with each shallow breath his ribs produced a sharp pain that lanced through this chest.

Mrs Hudson's flat brought back memories of mornings when she had brought him tea and talked about something, anything at all, her voice a steady sound in the background, a constant he hadn't really paid attention to, too focussed on one case or another, or the news, or his website, or an experiment. Stupid, so stupid.

He shook his head once, curtly, to chase away the memories, memories that made him slow and easy prey and that only caused his heart to clench and his throat to narrow. Stupid.

When he finally found the strength, the determination to turn around and mount the steps to his own flat, his gait was unsteady, his muscles sore and aching, and he had to reach for the wall with one hand to keep his balance. Tired, he was so tired. Tired, and cold, and he just wanted to forget, to _not_ think for once.

His living room was as silent as it had been a day ago, when he had first come back, and it didn't feel like home, not now, not really. 221B had been home, always, but now... The armchair opposite of his was empty, and the smell of the cheap shaving cream John was so fond of was missing, Sherlock noticed all of a sudden. Instead, there was a tray on the small table next to John's armchair, a tray with a pot of tea and a plate with biscuits and a note, a note in Mrs Hudson's handwriting, telling him that the biscuits were his favourites, that she wouldn't have gone to the shops today otherwise, but since Mary had told her that he was back, she had gone anyway to get some.

Although the thought of food made his stomach churn and he had to breathe against the nausea rising in his throat once more, Sherlock felt his lips curl into a slow, tentative smile, despite himself. Tea and biscuits. Mrs Hudson's tea and biscuits, and a tiny note from her, telling him that she had not forgotten him, that she still cared, at least enough to try and feed him up a little, even though she wasn't even home.

Sherlock swallowed, tried to breathe, couldn't move for a few moments. Blinked his eyes open, pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket, checked his inbox and his texts. No unread emails, no text, no calls.

Busy, they were busy now, probably, plans, appointment, but they would call, and write, and everything would be fine. And Mrs Hudson would come home, and bring him more tea, and more biscuits, and he would go back to Bart's and pick up the tongue Molly had offered, or maybe the toes, and John would complain about the toes in the fridge next to the beer and the sausage and the left-over noodles from the day before yesterday that might as well be his new mould experiment and work cases with him nonetheless, and everything would be normal again, fine again.

Sherlock's breath hitched when memories of the shock of cold water closing above his head attacked him all of a sudden, and for the duration of a few eyeblinks he could feel the cuffs again, cuffs around his wrists, hard and solid and impossible to remove, the chafed skin on his wrists hidden beneath his coat, jacket and shirt. Just like the bruises mottling his skin and the cut behind his hairline and the countless faint scars covering his body, hidden beneath the protective layers of his clothing.

His eyes focused on the biscuits and the tea, and his stomach grumbled, despite the nausea that was still rolling around in his intestines. He couldn't remember the last time he had been hungry, really hungry, had allowed his transport to be distracted by the notion of something as unimportant as hunger, and even though he knew that he needed sustenance, that he was supposed to eat something because his last meal had been more than two days ago, and even then only because Mycroft had told him to, had all but made him ingest something that had, in fact, stayed down, he couldn't bring himself to pick up a biscuit.

Instead, he poured himself a cup of tea with shaking hands, took a sip, swallowed the lukewarm liquid, set the cup down again. Gazed around in his flat, his silent, empty flat. Got rid of his coat with unsteady movements, made his way over to the shelf near the window where his violin was resting in its case.

The instrument, smooth, polished wood, felt familiar beneath his fingertips, and maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, if he played long enough, it would manage to cover the silence, the memories, the dark images.

Sherlock took a slow, shallow breath, turned his gaze towards John's armchair and started playing.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.  
_


	8. John IV

_There is literally no excuse for how late this chapter is. I've received a few really motivating reviews lately (one of them from HikariNovva - thank you!), and they have sort of spurred me into trying to write again. I'll do my best... I've got basically thirty-something chapters of this story saved on my harddrive, but the more time passes, the less I like what I've written, and the more I want to twinge and tweak the story, and the less I get anything published. I also did something minor tweaking in earlier chapters, but nothing really important._

 _Those of you who are still reading: Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

John IV

* * *

John's day at work, after Sherlock's boredom-inspired visit, had been filled with sneezing and coughing cold patients, two cases of diarrhoea, four children with various childhood illnesses, three calls and four texts from Mary who reminded him twice that they still needed to talk about the house and even one call from Gemma who blabbered about Daniel's birthday and other unimportant things. The greatest excitement he had had all day, along with the disagreement with Mary the previous evening, had been a chubby toddler with bleeding lacerations on both elbows, so he wasn't surprised when he arrived at the pub before Greg. Greg's favourite pub, actually, and it was Greg who talked John into rather frequent pub evenings. Not that he minded, though. Greg tended to be far more interesting company than Gemma and Mark.

Greg showed up twenty minutes later, out of breath and with a sour expression on his face, and ordered a beer before he plopped down on the barstool next to John and all but slumped over the bar with a heavy sigh.

John pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows at this display of frustration. "So," he remarked eventually, "good day at work?"

A muffled groan came from Greg. "Don't remind me," he muttered lowly, but at least pushed himself upright again. "Appointment with the new Chief Superintendent," he explained while John took another sip from his already half-empty beer. "A bloody teenager in a suit and a tie who thinks he knows it all. Lectured us about 'proper conduct' today." He blew out another breath, and John had to bite back a smile. "I've been doing this job for years, and now a bloody paper-shuffler comes along to tell me how to do it properly. Bloody bureaucrats."

Greg's beer arrived. He took a large gulp, closed his eyes for a moment and then inhaled. "But," he added while a wide grin was spreading on his face, "I'm going out with Molly later."

This time, John had to smile. "That's... what, the fourth time in two weeks that you're acutally going out?"

Even in the dim light of the pub, the glee on Greg's face was unmistakable. John couldn't help a smirk – ever since Greg had finally had the courage to stop ogling Molly Hooper and actually ask her on a date, it had been painfully obvious that Greg had, without a doubt, completely and utterly fallen for her, and the same went, at least according to Mary, for Molly. Mary, John remembered while his grin deepened, loved to speculate about how soon they were going to move in together, when Greg was going to ask Molly to marry him, and, if Mary was in a particularly cheery mood, when the first baby was to be expected.

"Yep," Greg confirmed now and took another large sip. "Dinner in her favourite restaurant, and then we're going back to mine." Another enormous grin spread on his face before he took another swallow. "We've both got tomorrow off, so..."

John had to chuckle into his glass. Head over heels, definitely.

Greg looked up; his grin turned almost sheepish for a moment as he shrugged. "I mean, sometimes I wonder why she puts up with me of all people, but..." He shrugged again, picked at the label of his bottle and then turned back to John with a lopsided grin. "I'm not complaining."

John chuckled again. No, he hadn't thought so. Not when he remembered how long it had taken Greg to finally ask Molly out, and how elated he had been when she had said yes and, only two days later, when the date had gone well – more than well, actually – and they had ended up as a couple only two weeks later.

"You and Mary," Greg changed the topic after a few minutes, "any new plans on moving yet?"

John leaned back in his stool and pursed his lips. Mary's plans, yes. Plans they still had to talk about properly, and plans she had been nagging him about for what felt like ages. "Not really," he admitted. "Mary's in contact with some real estate agent who's got an offer for us, but we haven't talked about it yet."

Greg nodded thoughtfully and stared at his bottle. "If you need help – with moving, or Amanda, or anything – just let us know." Before John could reply something, Greg already went on: "How's my favourite goddaughter, anyway?"

Amanda was Greg's only goddaughter, but that didn't stop him calling her his favourite. Somehow, both Greg and Molly had taken to Amanda immediately, and Greg even had a hand for babies, it seemed. John smiled into his glass, took a sip and allowed his thoughts to stray to his tiny little daughter for a moment. "She's good," he answered eventually. "Mary swears that she keeps trying to crawl, but it doesn't work out quite right yet." He smiled again. "No, really, she's good. And she's only woken us twice in the last two nights." Which didn't mean, of course, that John had slept all that well – he did spend the last night on the sofa, after all. Recalling the stupid disagreement with Mary made him want to clench his jaw in an echo of anger, so he opted to take another swig of his beer instead. "And how's Molly?" he added a question of his own. It had been a while since he had last seen her, he had to admit. Mary and Molly met up for lunch now and then, but since John's work didn't lead him to Bart's any longer and his evenings were usually absorbed by Mary and Amanda or the occasional pub visit with Greg or Mark or one of Mark's colleagues, he only saw Molly when Mary invited her and Greg over for dinner or tea.

Greg raised his bottle to take a sip and shrugged. "Her colleague's still on holiday, so she ends up with most of the work," he explained, "but otherwise... everything's good."

Obviously, John couldn't help but think when he noticed another wide grin on Greg's face. Detective Inspector Lestrade, one of Scotland Yard's finest and rather recently divorced, in love like a school boy. It was almost ridiculous, in a way, John thought, but who was he to judge?

"So," Greg began after a few minutes of silence, completely out of the blue, and stopped playing around with his half-empty beer bottle, "what'd he say to you?"

John didn't know whether to smile or to frown, so he took a gulp from his glass. No need to ask who Greg was referring to this time, of course not. Sherlock Holmes, best friend, Consulting Detective, the reason for his latest argument with Mary, back in London. "Ah," he made instead of an answer. The fingers of his right hand had started tingling; he flexed them, once, twice. "He's been to see you, too, then."

Greg gave a half-nod, half-grin. "Yep," he replied. "Came looking for a case."

A case. Of course. John didn't know whether to laugh or sigh – Sherlock had been bored this afternoon, and when John hadn't been able to distract him – by playing Cluedo or doing God knew what – he had gone looking for a case.

"That undercover work of his was boring, eh?" Greg added.

This time, John could only shrug. Sherlock hadn't said all that much, he realised now that he thought about it, but then, he had been back for about twenty-four hours and had already shown up at the surgery today because he was bored. "Seems like it," he answered, and did his best not think about what exactly it was that had forced Sherlock to agree to some kind of undercover work somewhere on the continent.

Greg remained silent for a few moments, checking his mobile. Waiting for a text from Molly, probably, or texting her himself. Obviously, a familiar voice echoed in John's head, and he frowned. "What was it he was doing, anyway?" Greg wanted to know and put his phone on the bar in front of him. "Never told me much."

The question brought back memories from last Christmas, Magnussen, Mary and a bloody goodbye on some airfield in the middle of nowhere, memories that came with the urge to tighten his left hand into a fist and maybe punch something, but John forced himself to push them away. "He worked some cases for his brother," he said, curtly, and left out on purpose that Sherlock's exile had been a sentence for murder. Greg was a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, after all, and even if he weren't, Mycroft had recommended, very strongly, and very convincingly, that John keep quiet about what Sherlock had done and about his subsequent punishment.

Greg let out a snort. "Mycroft, eh? Meddling bastard. No wonder Sherlock came looking for a case as soon as he was back. Bet he spent the last few months buried in files."

That would, as John had to concede, have been punishment for Sherlock indeed – actual, boring casework, without the eccentricity of his usual cases and the adrenaline high of chasing suspects that Sherlock craved so much.

"So," Greg wanted to know once he had downed the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "how long's he been back?"

John could only shrug. "A few days, I think."

Greg nodded once. "And... he's gonna stay?"

That was, John concluded, a very good question. He wanted to say yes, because Sherlock was his best friend, and it was good, it was bloody amazing to have him back, but who knew about Sherlock Holmes? He hadn't left willingly, not really, John had to remind himself, had been exiled, but there was a little nagging voice in his head that kept reminding him, just like Mary had the night before, that Sherlock had disappeared once before, without explanation, letting everyone believe that he was dead, had committed suicide, only to show up again two years later, with no explanation and a painted-on mustache. "Yes," John said nonetheless and did his best to push these thoughts to the back of his mind, "I think so."

Abruptly, Greg let out a chuckle. "Bloody bastard," he muttered and shook his head. "I never know whether to hug or to punch him."

John could feel his lips pull into a quick, taught smile. Yes. He understood the impulse. "Did you?" he wanted to know. "Punch him?" He still remembered, vividly, the three times he had taken a swing at Sherlock after his sudden reappearance two years ago. Not this time, though.

Greg shook his head. "Nah," he said. "He looked pretty terrible anyway."

John stifled a sigh and emptied his glass. Yes, he did. But then, if there were cases, Sherlock didn't sleep, didn't eat, and had a tendency to aggravate people he worked with, which explained the bruise on his cheek. "You know Sherlock," he told Greg. "I'm surprised he's even able to survive without Mrs Hudson to make him tea."

Greg chuckled, and John managed a smile. "Everything's just transport, right?" Greg asked, leaning back in his bar stool and smirking lopsidedly. "It's just not the same without him," he muttered, then grabbed his empty bottle and raised it. "To Sherlock, back in London."

John echoed his movement. The game was on again. Which meant, of course, that John would soon be fending off late night calls from his best friend because whatever he had found out about this case or that could not possibly wait until the next morning, and more bored visits like the one today, and which meant that John was probably expected to take off chasing criminals with Sherlock every second day of the week. Despite himself, he had to grin weakly. Just like it used to be, boffin Sherlock Holmes and bachelor John Watson. Well. Not quite, though, because now, he had a family, a tiny little daughter, and he couldn't simply spend all of his free time running around in London.

But still. Good to have his best friend back, indeed.

~(o)~

It was two hours later when John pulled up in front of his and Mary's flat and, with a yawn, got out of the car. He had headed home as soon as Greg had left for his date with Molly, and now he only wanted a shower to get rid of the stale smell of Greg's favourite pub, read today's paper as long as it was still today, peek in on Amanda and then fall into his bed – bed this time, not the sofa. He was already fumbling with his keys when he noticed the dark shape on the front stairs, a shape looking vaguely human, perched on the steps, apparently wearing a coat, and...

"John," Sherlock's quiet voice addressed him out of the dark, and despite himself, John almost jumped.

"Jesus," he exclaimed and took a deep breath. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" A question which was, as John realised as soon as he had uttered it, completely redundant. It really didn't take a genius to figure it out – Sherlock had been bored, had then gone looking for a case, had indeed got a case from Lestrade, and now he was here, sitting in front of the door to John's flat, for one simple reason.

John closed his eyes briefly and pursed his lips. Of course. What else could it be? Because that was what Sherlock did. Show up in the middle of the night to chase some suspect and expect John to follow. And John had followed him. Before.

Sherlock had got to his feet by now, the light from the street lamp in front of their neighbour's flat illuminating him sparsely. John took a good look at his best friend and allowed himself a sigh. "Greg's case, isn't it?" he wanted to know and finally found the right key.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. "Case," he finally repeated, in a voice that didn't reflect his usual exultation about a gruesome murder or a nice, cleverly executed theft. "The case..." He cleared his throat while John unlocked the door. "Yes, of course, the case."

Greg's case, naturally. John sighed again, then pushed the door open. "Well, come on then," he said. Because Sherlock was back, and because Greg was right – he did look terrible – and because there probably wasn't a way out of that anyway. Because there was a case, and Sherlock didn't really do "no's" when there was a case.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, oddly enough, before he finally followed John inside. Well then, John mentally steeled himself as he closed the door, so much for his plans for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it._


	9. Sherlock IV

_Apparently, I've done some writing. I think I finally need to get this story (and a few others...) off my chest. So, well. How long can it possibly take to finish this?  
_

 _Your feedback, of course, helps immensely; you have no idea how much I look forward to hearing my mail alert... Thank you!_

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

Sherlock IV

* * *

Sherlock did his best to even out his breathing as he sat on John's sofa. His heart was fluttering in his chest, and the sudden certainty that this was real, probably, that he was in John's flat, in John's living room, was overwhelming. John was encompassing him; memories of John, from happier times, were floating around him as he took in and breathed in John's flat, and the darkness that had been pressing down on his chest became lighter, nearly translucent.

He wasn't supposed to be here, he thought. It was blood and shadows and death he was going to bring to John's home, and John deserved better. But he had been drowning, drowning in the silence and emptiness of 221B, his flat that felt cold and unfamiliar; he had been drowning like he had been drowning in the river, and the only light had been John, a lighthouse of warmth and kindness and brilliance in a raging torrent of cold and blood and the mistakes he had made, and so he had turned to John.

John hadn't been at home when he'd arrived, and he had known then, as he knew now, that he should have left, should have gone back to 221B. But instead, he had waited, on the doorsteps, and John had appeared before Sherlock had been able to force himself to get up, call a cab, get back to 221B and stay there, stay there because he was not supposed to taint John's life any more than he already had. And then John had invited him in, and Sherlock had followed John, as he would always follow John.

Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes drifted closed. He swallowed, and breathed. Breathed John in. Because everything around him smelled of John, felt like John, John's living room, John's sofa, the noises – kettle, John's kettle – from the kitchen, John's, everything. He exhaled and pictured John's face from yesterday, John's face immediately before he had seen Sherlock, the obvious happiness in his face, the lines that had softened on his forehead, lines that Sherlock had helped create with his faked death and subsequent reappearance and his failure which had almost destroyed John's life, and that had deepened around his eyes and mouth, testifying to good months, happy months, without the constant danger Sherlock represented, without fear, without worry. The memory of John's face, yesterday, was another reminder that Sherlock was not supposed to be here, that Sherlock had no right, not any more, to impose himself on the life John had built.

"Here," John's voice reappeared, and Sherlock's eyes shot open. John placed a mug on the table in front of Sherlock, then settled down in an armchair opposite of him, a second mug in his own hands. He quirked a quick smile. "Tea. Thought we might as well get comfortable."

Sherlock's throat closed. The smell of John's tea was interwoven with memories of days long past, of exhausting, exhilarating cases, of quiet afternoons at 221B. He didn't remember how long it had been since he had last had a cup of tea; there had neither been time nor opportunity for tea in Croatia, and it would not have been John's tea.

John took a sip from his own mug. "So," he said, leaning back in his armchair and crossing his legs with a yawn. "How have you been?"

The question was the key to opening the abyss. For a moment, a moment only, Sherlock allowed himself to dwell on the possibility of telling John, of sharing the memories of the past seven months that he fought to keep hidden, to keep contained, without letting himself be overtaken by them. Then the moment passed, and he remembered why he could not, could never. He would not allow his darkness to taint John's life, and he could not bear the thought of John turning away from him in disgust. "It's been...," he began hoarsely, couldn't look at John. "You know."

John huffed a smile at that. "Boring?" he supplied, and Sherlock managed a nod. Boring. Boring would do.

"I wasn't sure you were going to be back," John said next, and Sherlock's blood froze in his veins. No, it couldn't be, it wasn't...

"I mean, you _did_ shoot a man in the head in front of a dozen witnesses," John went on. "And I know you said six months, but... well, I wondered if your exile was going to be permanent."

Permanent. It was supposed to be, a voice taunted inside his head. It was supposed to end with you, dead. It was Moriarty's voice, but Sherlock ignored it. He swallowed, pressed his hands against his thighs to stop their sudden trembling, to conceal it. Stupid, so stupid. "You know me," he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears, breathless and brittle. "I always come back."

John gave a brief chuckle, and Sherlock relaxed fractionally. "Right," John said. "Good."

The room fell silent. Sherlock breathed, breathed John in to disperse the images that were spinning through his brain with dizzying speed and in blood-red technicolour; it was John who broke the silence. "So," he said again. "Tell me about your case then."

Focus, Sherlock told himself. Focus.

The case, yes. Lestrade's case. Lestrade had, in fact, sent some files to Sherlock, but he had barely glanced at them. He had taken one look at the pictures Lestrade had included and had, although it was stupid, so stupid, almost thrown up, had then discarded the files. Sherlock leaned forwards and clenched his fingers around the steaming mug, as if to hold on to it. "Do you...," he began, then had to clear his throat. "Do you want to talk about the case?"

It had been the wrong thing to say, apparently, because John's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "I thought _you_ did," he said. "Why else would you show up here in the middle of the night?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. Because it was true, wasn't it? Because solving cases was what he thrived for; because solving cases was what he was good at; because solving cases was what John liked about him, what made John tolerate his presence in his life. John, soldier, army doctor, craved the rush of adrenaline, the high of the case, the thrill of the chase, almost as much as Sherlock had, before, and of course John expected him to deliver.

"Sherlock?" John was looking at him now, impatiently, waiting for him to say something, to talk about the case, to answer his question.

Sherlock blinked once, twice, his eyes glued to John, John in front of him, and tried to think of something to say. Case, John wanted to know about a case, wanted to work a case. "Where's Mary?" were the words that came out of his mouth instead, and Sherlock wanted to curse himself.

John, however, didn't look annoyed, or angry, just mildly surprised, and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock once more. "She's gone to bed already," he answered finally.

Sherlock's brain was racing. Bed, of course, yes, of course. Because it was late already, he realised, in the middle of the night. "She's... is she fine?" he forced out.

John's eyes narrowed even more, and Sherlock could feel himself losing control. "Yes," John said slowly. "Yes, she's fine. Sherlock..."

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted him. He didn't look at John, didn't dare to look at John. "The case," he went on. "Lestrade's case. Suicides, apparently, but linked." Lestrade's words, his evaluation of the case, words that Sherlock remembered, not something he had deduced, concluded. Of course not, because he hadn't even been able to look at photographs from the scenes without almost throwing up, retching up bile and Mrs Hudson's tea and nothing else. Pathetic, a pathetic version of the Consulting Detective that he was supposed to be.

He blinked again, took a deep breath, used the pain in his chest to try and focus. Control, control, control, control. "You...," he began, had to clear his throat almost immediately. "You are well, too?"

A frown appeared on John's face, and his lips pursed. "Sherlock," he said, his eyebrows drawing together. "What's going on?"

Sherlock didn't manage to produce a sound. Because John was right; John was right to ask. John expected him to have a case, expected him to be here because of a case, but he wasn't, didn't even want to think about Lestrade's case, no matter how stupid it was, and how irrational. "How," he began, then swallowed and mentally scolded himself for his pathetic failure to string even two words together, but he needed John to say something, needed to hear John's voice to remind himself that this was real, this and not the surging void in his mind, "how was your evening?"

John's lips remained pursed, and Sherlock had to lower his gaze to the coffee table in front of him. Didn't dare to look at John, John and at whose flat he had shown up in the middle of the night, for no reason apart from the desire to make the pain, the darkness on his mind go away, couldn't bring himself to look at John because he didn't want to see the disappointment in John's face, disappointment in his detective friend who couldn't even bring himself to look at some stupid case files and work.

"You're here to talk about my evening?" John finally wanted to know. Sherlock didn't look up, but he could picture the expression on John's face, could picture it almost perfectly: a frown, eyebrows slightly raised, a mixture of incredulity and resignation in his gaze, maybe even tinged with amusement.

When he didn't answer, John leaned forwards in his chair. "Sherlock," he said. "Look at me."

He did, finally, forced himself to keep it together, to stop behaving in such a ridiculous and completely inappropriate way.

"Are you sure you're alright?" John was asking now, all but scanning him. "You didn't take anything, did you?"

Stupid, stupid, so, so stupid. Couldn't let John think that. Never that. Couldn't disappoint John. Not again.

Sherlock took quick breath, did his best to ignore the hammering of his heart and the rush of his blood in his ears, and put on a smile. "Oh please, John," he said and forced his hands, his fingers to stay still. Trembling, John couldn't see him trembling, wasn't allowed to, because if he did, he would assume withdrawal, drugs, cigarettes, and who needed a best friend who called himself a Consulting Detective, but who apparently couldn't stand to look at a simple case file and was a junkie on top of that? "Of course not," he added. "There's a case, after all."

This, it seemed, was the right thing to say, because John snorted a laugh and leaned back in his chair again. Sherlock's hands trembled against his cup of tea, and he could almost feel himself unravelling. He couldn't. Wasn't allowed to. Focus on John, he told himself. Focus on John.

"My evening was fine, by the way," John's voice reached him, finally, tinged with something Sherlock couldn't decipher, "Went to the pub with Greg. We had a few beers, talked about his work, Mary, Molly, and his new chief superindendent. You should try it sometime, you know. Socialising." John paused for a moment, before adding: "But somehow I doubt that's what you came here for."

John, he reminded himself again. He was with John, and John Watson kept him right. He needed to focus on that. Focus on John.

"You know," John was saying now, placing his own mug back on the table, "if there's something you want from me, you could just ask. Maybe skip the small-talk, hm?"

Sherlock exhaled, felt himself relax, slowly, fractionally. Safe now, he told himself, it was safe, could let his guard down. He was back, in London, with John. Was allowed to relax. Could relax now, finally.

"Sherlock," John said again.

He had tried, during his exile, to store away his memories of John. To save them, very carefully, very thoroughly, each and every single one of them. If there was anything Sherlock had not been able to bear being infected by thoughs of his own deeds, by his filthy memories of a two-year exile and another one, shorter this time, but doomed to end with his death, and with his death only, then it was John.

Because John deserved better, always had, deserved a life with his family, and did not deserve Sherlock's memories of him being tainted with blood and violence and torture.

John Hamish Watson, who kept him right.

It hadn't worked, of course. Not properly. Sherlock's hands trembled, and he spilled a few drops of John's tea. His fault, always his fault. It had not worked, because John's voice had broken free from the restraints his mind had attempetd to put on his memories, had told him to put pressure on that cut, or ice on that bruise, or reminded him that a bullet to the head was, in the end, a quick and merciful way to die. Memories of John's features had resurfaced, weak reproductions, and yet a silent reminder of why it had to be worth it, of why Sherlock had been doing all of it, of why he wasn't allowed to give up just yet.

"Sherlock," John repeated.

And now John had looked so happy. Happy because, for once, Sherlock hadn't been around to ruin everything.

"Sherlock," John said again, this time followed by a weary sigh. "If I'd known you' were just going to sit there and go through your bloody mind palace, I could've just let you do that outside and go to bed," he muttered under his breath, but Sherlock heard him. "John-," he began, then stopped before his voice could break. The case, of course John wanted to hear about the case, wanted to work on what Sherlock was supposed to have come for, and not just sit there and entertain Sherlock just because Sherlock felt like it.

"I know I'm your conductor of light...," John was saying now, lightly, and Sherlock wanted to interrupt him, wanted to say yes, of course, John Watson, always John, John who kept him right, but didn't. Didn't, because he was here, in the middle of the night, without a case, and the least he could do was not to interrupt John.

"...and that an outside eye is very helpful and very stimulating to your genius and so on," John went on, "but..."

Sherlock swallowed when the feeling of tight rope around his wrists reappeared all of a sudden, far too tight to escape, and the dampness of his face, dampness of the basement he had been locked in because he hadn't even lasted six months, hadn't made it as long as Mycroft had predicted without getting caught. His hands shook again, and more tea sloshed over his fingers. Over, he had to remind himself, it was over. Everything was fine, he was back, no reason to dwell on memories from his second exile. Fine, he was fine.

"...do we really have to do that now? It's in the middle of the night, I'm tired, and you look like you could use some sleep yourself," John finished.

Tired. Sherlock's attention snapped back to John immediately. "Yes," he managed while he could feel his heartrate accelerate once again. "Yes, of course." John needed sleep, of course. Stupid, stupid of him to have shown up late, so late, but then, John had been busy, had said he was busy, had been to the pub with Greg. Greg. Lestrade. Greg. Needed to remember his name.

Opposite of him, John yawned. "Good," he muttered and stood, cup of tea in one hand. "You want me to call a cab for you?"

For a moment, Sherlock didn't understand what John was saying. Cab? What would he need a cab for? Unless... Unless John wanted him to leave. Sherlock swallowed, tried to ignore the suddenly frantic thumping of his heart. "Cab?" he echoed.

"Yes, a cab," John repeated patiently. "I assume you don't want to walk back to Baker Street?"

No, no, no, Sherlock wanted to tell him. No cab, he didn't need a cab, he was perfectly fine where he was, right here, in John's living room. Would even talk about the case, if John wanted him to, or would shut up, wouldn't disturb John. There was a twinge in his chest, somewhere, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe, like he was underwater again, doing his best to fight the raging current of the river, to fight the lulling urge to simply close his eyes and let it happen. Stupid, of course, because he was in John's living room, and breathing should be perfectly easy. Should be.

"Sherlock," John said again, and this time, Sherlock could hear the resignation in his voice, the frustration. His fault, again, always his.

"I," he began, faltered – pathetic, so pathetic – and forced himself to go on. "I could just stay here." Stay here, on John's sofa, finish the tea John had made, and sleep. Maybe.

A laugh escaped John before he shook his head, eyebrows drawn together. "Absolutely not," he said. "You're not sleeping on that sofa."

Sherlock had to swallow. Of course John wanted him to leave, he told himself while his heart gave a twinge in his chest and black spots danced in front of his eyes for a moment. Of course. He had shot a man, in cold blood, and if John ever found out what else he had done, during his exile, it would be only natural if he never wanted anything to do with Sherlock ever again. Of course.

"Come on," John said, standing. "I know you have a case, but I think you need to get some sleep. You look like hell."

Sherlock let go of his still full mug, got to his feet. "Yes," he muttered and stuffed his hands – shaking, stupidly shaking again – into his coat pockets.

Mere minutes later, he found himself on the stairs outside of John's flat, John's "good night" and the sound of the door closing still ringing in his ears. He stayed where he was for a few seconds, tried to shake off the weight on his chest, pressing down on his lungs, tried to breathe evenly and get rid of the images – over, it was over, and his behaviour was simply ridiculous – of other dark nights, nights that ended with blood or with a gun pressed against his temple that assaulted him, once again, tried to focus. Case, John had asked about the case, repeatedly, and Sherlock had only stumbled over his words, hadn't even been able to give a summary of the case Lestrade expected him to solve. Because that was what he did, wasn't it? Consulting Detective, the one the police turned to when they were out of their depth.

John, Sherlock reminded himself, John wanted a case, too, wanted to work, and quite obviously didn't want to be bothered by Sherlock because of nothing, without a proper reason. Didn't deserve to be bothered by him, really. Deserved so much better.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. It was what he did, he repeated to himself. What good, after all, was a Consulting Detective who couldn't consult, couldn't deduce?

He swallowed again, then opened his eyes. Of course John expected him to have a case, to solve the case, because that was what he did, what he was there for.

He could do that. He could. Sherlock inhaled, clenched his hands to fists and straightened ever so slightly. Well. It seemed that he had work to do.

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 _Thank you for reading. Reviews tend to be fuel for my inspiration, so... if you find the time, I'd be beyond grateful.  
_


	10. Sherlock V

_...hello? Anyone still there? (Anyone still reading?)_

 _It's been ages, I know, and the pace at which I'm updating this story is simply awful. But maybe, maybe... someone's still reading? If you are, and have been, then please know that it's because of you readers that this chapter is here now (as will any future chapters be - if someone's interested) - so thank you all, so much (for the reviews I haven't replied to...)._

 _Anyway. Enjoy._

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 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

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Sherlock V

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He slept for three hours. His dreams were filled with dark shapes and water and the need to escape, and when he jerked awake, he could taste the tang of blood and stale river water in his mouth. After, he sat in the dark of 221B, his head in his hands, and waited for his breathing to slow and his racing heart to calm while cold sweat was drying on his skin.

It was night still, the dark and dreary hours before dawn, and for moments in time, as he sat there, he wasn't sure if everything that had happened in the past two days had been real, had actually happened, or if everything, if London, if _John_ , had merely been a figment of his feverish mind that had convinced him that he was back in London while, in reality, he was slowly drowning somewhere in Eastern Europe. The urge to call John became almost overwhelming in its intensity then; he had his mobile in his hand, his thumb hovering over John's name in his contact list, before he could think better of it.

He got to his feet instead, stumbled into the bathroom and shed his clothes, the clothes Mycroft had provided him with. The cold splash of the shower rattled down on him, cooled his throbbing head and plastered his hair to his skull, and when he started shivering, it served as proof that this, 221B, London, was _real_. He avoided looking at the bruises that mottled his torso when he got out of the shower on unsteady legs and with muscles twitching from the cold, avoided looking at the bruise on his cheek. He slipped on a dressing gown instead of his suit jacket; his hands, he observed, were shaking.

When he returned to the living room, it was as empty as it had been before, as empty, as dark. John's armchair stood, lost and abandoned, in front of the mantle. Sherlock kept his gaze on it for a few minutes, then turned away. It didn't matter, he tried to tell himself, that his heart clenched painfully at the sight of John's empty armchair, not when he had work to do.

~(o)~

The case didn't make sense.

He went over the files Lestrade had mailed to him, went over the photographs of the crime scenes. He went over them again, and again, and again; tried to find a connection between the suicides, between the victims, between their lives, families, relations.

Deductions sprang at him, but they were all useless, pointless, and there had to be a connection, there _had_ to be, but the case didn't make sense.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and sank into his armchair, one palm pressed against his throbbing ribs. Mind palace, he told himself, he needed to access his mind palace. Needed to sort through the facts again, come up with something useful, finally. He took a deep breath, ignored the stab of pain, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, focussing. Only to find his gaze straying to John's empty armchair opposite of his and his thoughts wandering to John two days ago, in front of the surgery, happy and carefree. To John telling him it was good to have him back, John, John, John, and then to his exile, his time undercover, undercover as a rogue intelligence agent, blood, blood, blood, shackles around his wrists, kicks and punches to his head and torso, and finally a gun to his head, followed by tearing water that compressed his lungs and filled his throat.

Sherlock pressed the fingerstips of his right hand to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Focus, he needed to focus. The room swayed around him when he got to his feet again, eyes wide open now, and his head was throbbing, throbbing like he was still back there, like someone was using a crowbar to try and smash his head in, to try and keep him from the case he was supposed to solve.

It's this case, or none at all, Lestrade's voice repeated in his head, in tact with the pounding, as he made his way over to the kitchen and started fumbling for a glass and another one of those pain pills that at least granted momentary relief. This case, or none at all, those were Lestrade's words, Sherlock remembered and swallowed the pill, and that wasn't possibly allowed to happen. Lestrade expected him to solve the case, and John, John wanted a case, wanted to talk about a case, so he had to have one. Had to work on it, had to solve it. Simple, really.

Another wave of dizziness rolled over him, and he had to clench his shaking hands around the counter for a moment. Fine, he was fine, simply transport. And he had gone longer, much longer with less sleep than the odd nap here and there he had managed to catch, or that had caught up with him, so he should be fine, so there wasn't any reason why he felt so shaky, so light-headed. Absolutely not enough reason to call John, not after his pathetic display of a combination of being an annoyance, of neediness and completely illogical weakness last night.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from his mobile that was lying, tauntingly, on the table, a mere two feet away from him, all but inviting him to text John, call John. Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes again, for a few seconds, not long enough for dark images of Eastern Europe to attack him, and shook his head, as if to get rid of his transport's weakness.

Any second now, he told himself as he all but stumbled to the nearest chair, slumped into it, his legs, knees buckling, any second now he would get up again, would stop just doing nothing and trying to breathe, would get back to Lestrade's case. Any second now.

He tensed when the sound of steps reached his ears, steps on the stairs to the flat, light steps, slow, careful, almost feathery, followed by a cheery "hu-hu" as Mrs Hudson peeked her head into the kitchen.

The room swam around him once again. Dark spots were dancing in his line of vision, and for a moment, he couldn't hear anything else but the hammering of his heart in his throat. When his eyes cleared, Mrs Hudson was still there, Mrs Hudson, his landlady, in his kitchen, in his flat, at 221B Baker Street.

No dress today, his brain told him, no dress but trousers, suggesting housework, vacuum cleaning or dusting, or maybe the lino. New necklace, shiny, polished, expensive, by the looks of it, and she was wearing it despite her obvious lack of intention to go out any time soon, suggesting sentimental value, present, maybe, from someone she was close to. Tray in her hands, a tray, suggesting breakfast, but why here, why in his kitchen?

Sherlock remained where he was, completely still, as Mrs Hudson set the tray down on the table, carefully avoiding the sheets, the files, that lay scattered around everywhere, then put her arms in her hips and huffed in disapproval. "Sherlock," she exclaimed, "you've been back for barely two days, and already this place is a mess!"

Sherlock swallowed, didn't move. A mess. Of course he would have made a mess, had made a mess. Always did, it would seem. He swallowed again, tried to get the look on John's face on Magnussen's porch out of his mind, the look of disappointment, of frustration, of anger at the mess Sherlock had nearly made out of John's life.

Mrs Hudson huffed again and turned back to the tray. Grabbed the tea pot – a new one, new, not the one with the flowery decor – poured tea into a cup, placed it back on the table. "Your morning tea, dear," she informed him without looking up, "and breakfast. I haven't been to the shops, and I didn't have your favourite jam, but I've made do." She pushed the tray in his direction, towards where he was rigid in his chair, where he still hadn't said a single word, not even a thank you, nothing, and then lowered herself into the chair closest to her.

"Well?" she made and gestured at the tray, the plate on it, the cup of tea. "What are you waiting for? Eat, young man, before your tea gets cold."

Sherlock had to close his eyes for a moment. Had to close his eyes and simply breathe, and then open them again and convince himself that this was real, that Mrs Hudson was sitting in his kitchen, had not forgotten him, had made him breakfast; that he had made it out, against all balance of probability, that he was back, in London, with John, that it was _over_. Had to convince himself, convince his brain, that his kitchen would not suddenly morph into a damp, dark cell and Mrs Hudson would not abruptly turn into a Croatian thug whose one single purpose it was to squeeze names out of Sherlock, the names of people he worked for, he worked with, information about what he was doing, how much he knew, everything.

Of course she didn't. Of course not. Stupid. Stupid of him to think that, to give in to the delusions his brain kept throwing at him.

"...and then Mary phoned me," Mrs Hudson was saying now, her voice floating through the flat. Sherlock allowed himself to let Mrs Hudson's chatter wash over him – for a moment, just for a moment, he told himself – to let it bring back memories from other mornings when she had made him tea, too, and talked about something, anything at all, her voice a steady sound in the background, a constant he hadn't really paid attention to, focused on one case or another, or the news, or his website, or an experiment.

"She told me that you were back," Mrs Hudson went on. "Good thing, too. I might have just called the police when I heard your pacing. That nice Detective Inspector of yours. With all these break-ins lately... You never know, and in my age... Better safe than sorry, I say. And since you never bothered to tell me when you were going to be back..." She sighed, and Sherlock's heart gave a minuscule twinge. He swallowed, a futile attempt to dislodge the lump that had settled itself in his throat, and managed a hoarse "Mrs Hudson".

She looked up at him briefly, her hands fiddling with the necklace she was wearing. Expensive. Nothing Mrs Hudson would spend money on. A gift, definitely. "So is your other work finished now?" she asked.

Finished now. Finished. Sherlock resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, a vain attempt to block out memories of a lashing river that lunged at him, the lashing river that should have finished it. "Yes," he replied and clenched his hands into fists, hid them in his lap, beneath the table, invisible for Mrs Hudson's eyes. Couldn't let her see his trembling. If she saw, she would ask questions, and if she knew, knew about the full extent of what he had almost done to John, how he had almost ruined everything John held dear, if she knew about the enormous mistake he had made... She couldn't know. Not ever.

Mrs Hudson gave a small sigh, followed by a nod. "Good, that's good, isn't it?"

Good. Sherlock could feel his hands shake, could feel his heart race. Stupid, stupid. Only transport. Couldn't possible let his transport get the better of him when Mrs Hudson was here. Straightened his shoulders instead, grit his teeth. Kept his gaze focussed on Mrs Hudson opposite of him, in his kitchen, still fiddling with her necklace.

Sherlock had to force himself to inhale when Mrs Hudson gave another sigh. "You're a grown man," she began and finally looked at him, her lips pressed together, a frown on her forehead.

Frown. Anxious, maybe. Annoyed. Angry. Or was she? Sherlock didn't know.

"I know that," she went on, "but... I never understood why you had to leave in the first place. I mean..."

And suddenly he was back in front of Magnussen's house, on his porch, together with John, and it was his fault that John's entire life was about to crumble around him, because he had made one mistake, because he hadn't thought it through properly, because he had failed, and John was there with him and about to pay the price, John, who had suffered so much already because of him, and Sherlock simply couldn't let that happen. Would do – had done – anything to stop that happening. His next inhale was little more than a shudder, a half-sob, but Mrs Hudson didn't notice.

"I know that your work is important to you, but...," Mrs Hudson went on, slowly now.

Sherlock's heart jittered in his chest, and the smell arising from the plate in front of him lost its appeal all of a sudden, its pleasantness, threatened to choke him instead, nausea overwhelming him.

Her hand ceased fumbling around with her necklace, was pressed against her chest now, over her heart. His fault, his alone.

She didn't know what he had done.

She didn't know what he had done, what had happened, because he hadn't told her, had chosen for her not to be told. John knew, of course, Mary, Mycroft, the other parts of the British government. They knew, because they had to, but not Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade, or Molly, or his parents.

Not them. They couldn't ever know, they didn't need to know, could not know that he had killed a man, in cold blood, that he had miscalculated in such a way that John's life, his and Mary's family, had been on the line.

They couldn't know, because if there was something they would not forgive him, something he would not forgive himself for, even though it had not come that far, not this time, then it was him destroying John's life.

Sherlock's fingers cramped into the fabric of his trousers.

"You know," Mrs Hudson said, her voice quiet, slowly folding her hands, unfolding them again, "with John and Mary and their baby, and everything... I think nobody of us could understand why you just..."

Her nexts words drowned in the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, through his head, of everything spinning. Left, he had left, again.

He hadn't decided to leave, another voice in his head was screaming. He had never wanted to leave, but there hadn't been any other way. He had failed John once, had hurt him, terribly, and John had let him into his life again, his new life with Mary, and then Sherlock had almost gone and destroyed that, too, had almost ruined it. There hadn't been any other way, but he was back now, back, and he wouldn't make the same mistake again, and everything would be fine. Had to be fine. Fine.

Mrs Hudson gave a quiet sob that cut straight through Sherlock's heart. "And then you didn't even say goodbye properly, you know, just a phone call... John explained it to me later, that there was some work for you somewhere in Europe, and your brother."

To the very best of times, John. The very best of times.

He wanted to say something, to make it better, wanted to apologise, but... but there wasn't anything. Nothing he could possibly say, nothing he could do. Not even his vocal chords would work, air wouldn't stream out, couldn't make it past the lump in his throat.

"We didn't even know when you were going to be back," she went on, then gave a short sigh and rested her hands on the table, folding them once more.

The blood continued rushing through Sherlock's veins, through his ears, smothering all the other noises, rendering him dizzy, making it impossible to concentrate, to say something that was appropriate, something that wouldn't sound pathetic, or weak, or stupid.

Over, it was over, he had paid, had atoned, it was over, he simply wanted it to be _ove_ _r._

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock managed to croak before she could say anything else. His eyes fought to focus on a tiny spot of dried egg yolk on the back of her hand, on her skin, while his brain was struggling to find something to say, an explanation that wasn't the truth and that wouldn't shatter her life, too, that wouldn't destroy everything, something to say.

Her chair creaked against the linoleum of the kitchen floor as she pushed it back, got to her feet. "I know, dear," she muttered and shuffled towards his fridge. "Your work comes first, it was an interesting case, I know, I know. You take milk in your tea, don't you?" she wanted to know, closed the door of the fridge again. "Here," she said, placing the carton on the table.

Sherlock swallowed. Tried to relax his fingers, still clenching his trousers beneath the table. Tried to breathe more deeply, more calmly. Tried to concentrate on Mrs Hudson, and not on his time away.

Mrs Hudson didn't sit back down again. "Oh, it's so late already!" she exclaimed, and Sherlock did his best not to flinch. "I have a 'date', you know," she told him. Proud, sounded proud. Pride. "That's what they call it these days, isn't it?" Her hands were at her necklace once more. Date. Gift, then, definitely. "I'll be out for today," she added. "But you finish your breakfast, dear."

Sherlock's left thigh complained about his fingers' tight grip on his trousers, on his own skin, but he couldn't let go. "I...," he began, his voice hoarse, and cut himself off when Mrs Hudson took a step forwards from where she had moved towards the door, towards the stairs, her hands in her hips.

"I know, I know," she said, "you're busy, you're not hungry. But you rather look like you need to eat, dear."

And then she turned around, towards the stairs, light, feathery steps again – hip, her hip wasn't giving her trouble, seemed to be fine – and Sherlock was alone again, in his kitchen, and could do nothing but stare at the tray and plate in front of him, breakfast she had made for him, and the tea she had brewed for him, and had to concentrate on not letting his rebellious transport vomit.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading._

 _Okay, there's something else I've got to say: I promise this story is going somewhere, if it is to be continued. And I will try to continue, if someone wants me to. So... tell me yes or no?_


	11. Sherlock VI

_You know, I didn't think I'd be able to post another chapter. Want to know why? Well - because the response to the last one literally BLEW me AWAY, and by all rights, I should still be spinning around somewhere in the sky. Because, holy hell, you're amazing. All of you. So here's another chapter - for all of you._

 _Also, I'm really, really rubbish at updating at regular intervals - so while I promise that this story will be continued, I'm afraid new chapters will continue to arrive rather infrequently (the next chapter is already half-way written, but God knows when I'll actually find the time to finish it)._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

Sherlock VI

* * *

He took a cab to John's house in the afternoon, but John wasn't at home.

He had spent the morning brooding over Lestrade's case, in his empty living room in 221B, fuelled by the knowledge that John _wanted_ to work a case, but as the day had progressed, it had become increasingly difficult to focus on the files and reports and photographs. Pictures of the victims had mingled with memories, and the walls of 221B had come closer and closer until they threatened to cave in on him and bury him. His stomach was churning with the few bites of Mrs Hudson's breaktfast he had forced himself to chew and swallow; his eyes were burning with lack of sleep, but if he closed them, if he slept, he knew he would be back and this time, there would be no escape.

For a while, he tried to lose himself in memories of John, but the memories were stale and pallid and not enough. So he gave in, in the end, fled from the void that was his flat and from the case that he couldn't solve and took a cab to John's house.

The thought of seeing John again had kept the memories at bay, but now the images, distorted and painted in blood and drenched in darkness, came back with force.

Stupid, a part of him was mocking him even as his heart started racing and his throat narrowed, it was stupid, so stupid to be affected by memories alone, but the other part of him knew that he needed John. Always needed John, because John kept him right, and because John had saved him before, so many times.

For a moment, as he stood in front of John's empty flat and tried to breathe, he didn't know what to do. He considered calling John; he considered waiting, as he had waited yesterday. In the end, he did neither; instead, he sent John a text – _John_ , it read. _Where are you?_ – and then started walking.

~(o)~

Sherlock was back in 221B when John finally replied.

 _Out with friends_ , John's text said, and nothing else.

Sherlock's mobile trembled in his hands as he lowered it to the armrest of his armchair. Out with friends. Of course. Obviously. Of course. John had friends, was supposed to have friends, because that was what people did. Course you're my best friend, he remembered John telling him, of course you are. It had been ages ago, eons, before John's wedding, before Sherlock had almost destroyed John's life with one enormous miscalculation.

Memories flooded his brain all of a sudden; they were memories of a gun shot, fired from John's gun, by Sherlock's own hand, on Magnussen's porch, in front of Mycroft and a dozen MI5 snipers taking aim at John, or memories of a bonfire licking at John, or John's face when he had realised that Sherlock did not have a plan, not this time, that Sherlock had failed, had gambled and had lost against Magnussen, and John would pay the price. Friends protect people, John had told him once, and Sherlock knew that he failed at that, time and time again.

The sound of his text alert interrupted his straying thoughts. Text. From John.

 _Any news on the case?_

News on the case. The case he hadn't solved yet. He hadn't even succeeded in finding the connection between the victims. He couldn't solve it, couldn't, couldn't even look at the pictures of the crime scenes without remembering shackles around his wrists, without feeling the spray of blood on his face, without feeling the burn of the...

No.

No no no no no.

Sherlock's hands were shaking when he pressed them to his temples, to force away the unwanted images. Breathe, he told himself and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, he needed to breathe. Slow breaths, in, out, through the nose, slowly. Easy. Simple.

For minutes, the silence in 221B was filled with his carefully controlled inhales and exhales and the sound of his own rushing blood in his ears, until he, eventually, lowered his hands – shaking, still shaking – and opened his eyes. John, he reminded himself, he needed to text John.

He needed to text John, but he didn't know what to say.

He didn't want to investigate Lestrade's case; he didn't even want to think about Lestrade's case. He wanted to be in John's presence, watch John read the paper, work on his blog, sit in his armchair, drink tea, double over with breathless laughter in the hallway of 221B, roll his eyes at the body parts in the fridge, complain about having to go to the shops all the time.

No, he remembered, and his heart clenched and his eyes started burning, that couldn't be. John hadn't lived at 221B in almost three years. He had ruined that, irrevocably, when he had faked his death and disappeared for two years. He had no right, no matter how much he longed for it, to occupy more of John's time than John granted him, to place his own selfish needs over what John wanted.

And John wanted to know about the case.

 _Maybe_ , Sherlock typed. _When will you be back?_

He could almost picture it. So far, he had nothing about the case, no clever deduction, nothing. But when John would be there... John would say something so obvious and yet so brilliant, like he always had, and Sherlock's brain would finally do its job and solve the case. Because that was what John did, John who always said the right thing, always, always, who helped solve the case and managed to save the life. And then John would smile at him and would call his deduction brilliant, maybe, or fantastic, or amazing, and maybe Sherlock would even try to believe it himself, to forget that he had almost ruined everything.

The thought took his breath away. He rarely allowed himself to dwell on the magnitude of the mistake he had made with Magnussen. He had vowed to be there for John and Mary and their child, and he had forsaken that vow barely four months later. He had been cocky, over-confident in his own brilliance, and it had been John who had almost paid the price. The memory of Magnussen and John on Magnussen's porch, of Magnussen putting his hands on John while Sherlock was standing there, helpless, could do nothing to stop Magnussen, rose in him all of a sudden and brought with it a wave of nausea that had him crap his fingers into the leather of the armrests and hold his breath.

The nausea lingered, even as he dared to breathe again, a hot, winding sensation, like worms tangling with his intestines.

That was the last time he had seen John, he recalled, before his exile, before their goodbye on the tarmac. The last time...

He flinched when his mobile pinged. Swallowing thickly, he fumbled for it. John. John had texted him. John.

 _Don't know_ , John's text said. Sherlock stared at the words, read the letters, but his brain didn't grasp their meaning.

Didn't know. Didn't know what?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

The next breath he took hitched in his throat and his fingers cramped into the armrests of his chair as he struggled for control. Think, he needed to think. Focus. Focus. Control, control, control.

When John was going to be back, that was what he had asked, that was what John had replied to. Didn't know when he was going to be back. John didn't know when he was going to be back, that was what the text meant.

Sherlock closed his eyes. _John_ , he typed then. _Call me. I think I need your help._

This time, John's reply was immediate. _Nice try, but I'm busy. Try Greg instead._

Sherlock let go of his mobile. His limbs felt heavy, all of a sudden, heavy and stiff and sore, and the pulsating pain in his head was back, along with the throbbing of his ribs and the nausea rolling in his stomach.

Busy, he thought, detachedly. John was busy. Of course.

Of course.

His head was spinning, and the pain in his ribcage was intensifying, and the thought of being here, on his own, without his faithful blogger, doctor, without John, made him want to throw up.

Drama queen, John's voice told him. You're a drama queen. You're not a puzzle solver, you never have been. Solve the case. Solve the case, save the life. Solve the case.

Solve the case.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. It was nothing, he told himself. Nothing. He simply needed something to do, something to distract him, a case, a good case, and he'd be fine. He'd be fine.

221B was silent around him, and already he could feel the abyss closing around him once again.

~(o)~

In the night, he slept for three hours. Dark images jolted him back into wakefulness after midnight, and memories, half-remembered from the dreams that followed him, stuck to his skin like blood.

Blood, blood, blood. His head was pounding with that one word as he lurched to his feet, and his heart was racing.

Blood on the pavement. Blood leaking from Magnussen's temple. Blood on his hands. Sherlock stumbled against the coffee table, but the pain that flooded his knee barely registered over the pain in his chest, over his erratic breathing. Blood on his hands. He needed to get rid of the blood on his hands.

Cold water hit him, all of a sudden, and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, turning into a toneless whimper. He blinked, tried to focus on his surroundings. Home, he realised slowly, he was home, in his flat, in London. Home. He didn't remember walking into the bathroom, didn't remember stepping into the shower, but the cold spray helped clear away the vestiges of sleep and nightmares that came with it.

Instead, the water brought memories. It came down hard on him, drenching him, drowning him, making him shiver; Sherlock's heart fluttered when the water closed around him, around his mouth, nose, eyes, tossing him around in its current and taking his breath away. His next inhale turned into a choked gasp, and his knees gave way beneath him.

Sherlock didn't know how much time passed. When he finally found the strength to get to his feet and step out of the shower, his clothes were soaked, and he was shivering. He could do nothing but stand there for a few minutes, his heart pounding in his chest, arms bracing himself against the wash bowl, and gasp in heaving breath. Fine, he told himself, he was fine. Fine. Fine.

When he looked up, eventually, at the mirror above the wash bowl, a face was staring at him, his own, familiar and yet foreign, so foreign.

Sherlock blinked, and his reflection echoed the motion. Slowly, he brought a shaking hand up to the bruise on his left cheek, the bruise that stood out so grossly. He pressed his fingers against it and watched an expression of pain flash over his own face. His heart kept hammering in his chest; he brushed his hair aside, revealing the gash on his temple, the stitches Mycroft had forced him to agree to, somewhere back in Croatia. A strange doctor had done it, Sherlock remembered distantly, a strange doctor with thick, cold hands, so unlike John's.

John.

With a shuddering breath, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, before trying to unbutton his soaked shirt with trembling fingers. Instinctively, his gaze was drawn to his torso, to the ugly bruises mottling his skin.

Broken rib, he thought detachedly. He inhaled, watched the bruises move, a deep, unhealthy blue, yellow towards the edges, held the breath. Exhaled. Broken, maybe, or just bruised. Sherlock didn't know, found he didn't care, not really. It hurt, but that wasn't important. Not now. _That_ pain, he could deal with.

Sherlock touched the discoloured skin with two fingertips, closed his eyes. Pressed down. Hissed at the wave of sudden pain and felt another fist connect with his abdomen, another shoe, felt the lashing waves of the river tossing him about, and...

His harsh breathing was loud in the small, tiled room, and the world started spinning, a spinning that was accompanied by a tightness, pressure on his chest that would, Sherlock could not help but think in that moment, never disappear again.

"No." It was his own voice, hoarse and raspy and breathless, and for a moment, he waited for John's voice, for John's reply, telling him: "All right, Spock, calm down", but John didn't, of course he didn't, because he wasn't here, because Sherlock was alone, because John wasn't here. And without John, he realised while the room kept spinning and turning around him and he sank down on the closed toilet lid, Sherlock was still drowning.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought - because it'd mean the world to me._


	12. Sherlock VII

_This one's for Ernil i Pheriannath, whose latest review gave me the kick in the ass I needed to finish the chapter. Finished it is, but only very lazily proof-read - so please ignore all mistakes you might find._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME**

 **PART I**

* * *

Sherlock VII

* * *

He didn't go back to sleep that night. Would, if he had tried, only have come awake after a few hours, his heart jittering and his mind filled with images he didn't want to remember.

Instead, he tried to work on Lestrade's case. He could barely focus, his mind wandering between dark images of _then_ and memories of John, memories that had kept him sane for the last seven months, and he knew, he _knew_ that he wanted nothing more than to call John, hear John's voice, remember what was reality, remember that John was safe, was fine, was here, still considered Sherlock his friend. He didn't, in the end; he didn't call John. He didn't, because it was in the middle of the night, and John was busy, and he _couldn't_ call John in the middle of the night.

He didn't solve the case. Of course he didn't solve the case.

In the morning, Mrs Hudson brought him breakfast, croissants and biscuits and toast and tea and orange juice. "Oh, Sherlock," she said as she set down the tray on the table in the living room. "Have you been up all night? I could hear you pacing." Before Sherlock could reply, she went on, with a conspiratorial smile: "It's a case, isn't it? Don't worry; I won't bother you any longer. I know how important your cases are to you." She gave him another smile. "It's good to see you sitting in that chair again. Now, young man. Don't forget your breakfast."

Sherlock blinked. "Mrs Hudson," he croaked.

Mrs Hudson had already turned around, retreating into the kitchen. "Yes, yes, I know," she tutted. "You're busy, you need to solve the case. I'll be off, then."

The scent of her perfume lingered in the living room even after she had left. If Sherlock closed his eyes, he could almost picture her, seated in the armchair opposite of his, in John's armchair, chattering away about Mrs Turner's married ones, and the owner of the café downstairs, and the latest gossip. But when he opened his eyes, the flat was empty, void of Mrs Hudson, void of John.

His head swam, for a moment, when he stood. Breakfast. On the tray on the table. Breakfast Mrs Hudson had made, for him. The smell of toast and croissants caused his stomach to twist and churn, but Sherlock forced himself to eat. Because Mrs Hudson had made breakfast, _for him_. The croissants and biscuits and the toast tasted like ash in his mouth, and the orange juice was stale river water forcing its way down his throat, but Sherlock chewed and swallowed and tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest and the silence of the flat, even as his hands shook and the walls threatened to close in around him.

~(o)~

Mrs Hudson didn't come back.

Sherlock had moved to the sofa, the safety, the solidity of the wall in his back, and Lestrade's case files were spread out on the table.

Case. He needed to solve the case. Everybody expected him to solve the case.

Of course. Of course.

Consulting Detective. The police came to him for help when they were out of their depth, his own words, from years ago, mocked him. Consulting Detective. A conultant who couldn't even bring himself to look at the pictures and reports. What good, he wondered, was he when he couldn't even solve the one simple case Lestrade needed him for?

Fantastic, he remembered, staring ahead blankly. Fantastic, John had said. Amazing. Brilliant.

He could hear John's voice, still. Could recall the inflection, the disbelief, the amazement.

Fantastic. Brilliant. Amazing. 'course you're my best friend.

You machine. You cock. You stay here, on your own. You machine.

Good to have you back. Fantastic. Dinner? To the very best of times.

The sound of John's voice was floating around him, but it was merely an echo, nothing more, void of the warmth, the exasperation, sometimes mingled with something akin to fondness, sometimes with anger, that used to lace John's tone during conversations with Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. John wasn't here, and his mind's projection of John was nothing but a pale shadow of the man who had saved Sherlock, so many times and in so many ways. And without John, he was nothing.

The scattered sheets on the table in front of him were staring at him, mocking him, condemning him. The files included pictures, obviously, pictures of the victims, throat slashed, blood speckling pale skin, eyes wide open, empty and unseeing.

Sherlock blinked, but it didn't help. His hands had started shaking, he noticed, and Mrs Hudson's breakfast was a heavy, rolling weight in his stomach.

He had barely even looked at the pictures, had barely _dared_ to look at them. He remembered the tang of blood, the stickiness of it against his skin, the brownish-red stains it...

His mobile pinged, and Sherlock flinched. The living room of 221B swam back into focus around him as he fumbled for his mobile, unlocking the screen with trembling fingers.

Text, the screen said. He had a text. From John.

John.

 _Sherlock_ , his eyes deciphered, _you free this afternoon?_

Another ping. Text. A second text. _Mary's invited some friends._

 _And I don't really want to spend the day talking about knitting and yoga classes._

Sherlock blinked. Friends. Knitting. Yoga classes. You free this afternoon.

Friends.

People've got friends, people they like, people they don't like. Friends. You're my best friend, John had told him, once. You're my best friend. The memories of blood, of the river, of cuffs around his wrists, of shaking John's hand, one last time. You're my best friend. Friend.

Friend.

You free this afternoon. Free this afternoon.

For John, always.

 _Yes_ , he typed, holding his breath.

John's reply was almost immediate. _Yes? Just like that?_

Sherlock stared at the words.

Another ping. _This is about the case, isn't it?_ John had texted him.

Case. Right. The case. He needed to solve it. John expected him to solve it. Yes, of course. Needed to solve it, but couldn't. John couldn't know. Something, something. Needed to reply something. _I need your input_ , he texted back.

 _Fine_ , came John's answer. _See you later._

Fine. It took Sherlock's brain a few seconds to grasp the meaning of John's words, and when it did, all he could for seconds, moments, was to breathe, to breathe against the tightness in his chest while his heart was racing. John. He could see John again.

Light-headedness flooded him for a moment when he got to his feet, and he nearly knocked the mug, the mug that was still half full with cold tea Mrs Hudson had made for him, off the table.

John. Needed to call a cab, to get to John.

Case. John had asked about the case. With still shaking hands, he assembled the scattered sheets into one pile. Needed to be prepared, in case John wanted to talk about the suicides.

What else? Something, something else... Something he needed to do.

Get dressed, he realised. He was still in his dressing gown, hadn't bothered to change. But now he had to; he needed to look presentable for John. Friends, John had texted. For John and John's friends.

He undressed in the bathroom, removed the dressing gown and the tee he'd been wearing beneath. The bruising on his torso was still there, but this time, Sherlock chose to ignore it. His arms were trembling nonetheless as he put on a pair of suit trousers and a crips white shirt. The long sleeves covered the bruises on his torso, bruises that didn't want to fade just yet, but rather seemed to gain in gruesomeness. Covered the abrasions on his wrists, still visible, after almost two weeks. Covered everything.

He wondered, for a moment, as he forced his arms through the sleeves of a suit jacket, if John would be able to see through the facade. If John would be able to concover how broken he was, how far from brilliant, how useless. If John could tell that Sherlock's presence in John's life brought destruction and death, always had, always would, that Sherlock's presence would, sooner or later, destroy the life John had built for himself, with a wife and a career and normality.

Sherlock swallowed, held his breath. Enough, he told himself. Enough.

Another glance in the mirror. His skin was pale, shadowed beneath his eyes. The bruise on his face stood out, of course. Grey strands in his hair, sparse, but there. Dressed in trousers, white shirt, suit jacket. He looked... almost normal.

Normal. Normal was good.

And now he didn't have any more time to waste.

Sherlock directed another brief glance at the mirror, forced himself to straighten his shoulders and left the bathroom to call a cab.

~(o)~

By the time Sherlock had arrived at John and Mary's flat, the Lestrade's case files tucked into his coat, his heart was racing, and his throat was dry. Friends, John had said; friends of his were visiting. The thought of meeting people, people he didn't know, made him vaguely nauseous, but he pushed the thought away. It didn't matter anyway, not really, as long as John was there.

This time, in contrast to his last visit, John was at home, and when Sherlock rang the door bell, John opened.

"Sherlock, hey," John greeted him with a smile, and Sherlock felt something come loose inside his chest. "Go on, come in."

John closed the door behind him. "They're all very excited to meet you," he said. "The famous detective."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. "Ah," he made, stupidly.

John chuckled. "You know, I'm a bit surprised you actually came."

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes following John. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked.

John raised one brow. "Really? Because you're you. You didn't even stay for our wedding reception, remember?"

That shut Sherlock up. He remembered the wedding reception, the hollow pain in his chest at seeing John with Mary, so happy, so radiant, more at peace and filled with joy than Sherlock could ever have provided him with. The end of an era, he remembered Mrs Hudson telling him, before the wedding, and in that moment, alone, a silent, uninvolved observer of his best friend's bliss, he had truly understood the truth of those words. Because John deserved this, deserved the happiness, but the knowledge had done nothing to dampen the pain.

But beside the pain, he could also recall the vow he had made, to both John and Mary: to be there for them, always, to keep them safe, and happy. He swallowed. Good to have you back, John had told him, in the carpark in front of the clinic, and that was more than enough. For Sherlock, it was more than enough. "Yes," he said, eventually, his voice quiet. "Sorry about that."

John merely shrugged his shoulders. "It's fine. It's not like I didn't know that social gatherings aren't really your thing." He went on before Sherlock could think of something to reply: "Come on. Time to meet the others."

Sherlock followed John, through the tiny hallway and into the living room. There were people gathered there – friends, Sherlock had to remind himself; they were friends of John's – people he didn't know, people he had never seen before. He swallowed. It didn't matter, he told himself. It didn't matter, because they were John's friends, people John cared about.

One man – early to mid-forties, dressed in khaki trousers and a polo shirt, well-to-do, obviously, hair gelled back, an open beer bottle in his left hand – appeared next to John and clapped him on the shoulder. "John!" the man boomed. "Is that him? Your famous friend, the... what's it called? Private detective?"

John grinned at Sherlock. "Yes," he said, "that's Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Mark."

Mark – lawyer, Sherlock concluded, or maybe banker – removed his meaty hand from John's shoulder and offered it to Sherlock. "Mark Stevens," he said. "Me and my wife are good friends of John and Mary's."

Sherlock couldn't move. His throat hat narrowed, his muscles had locked up. Friend, the man had said. Good friend of John and Mary's. John's friend. Should shake his hand, he knew, but the mere thought of coming in contact with the man's fleshy limb had bile rising in Sherlock's throat.

There was a frown on John's face. His fault, Sherlock knew, always his fault. "It's all right," John said. "He doesn't really do social events."

Mark Stevens retrieved his outstretched hand and gave a roaring laugh; Sherlock flinched. He needed to say something, anything, to this man, a friend of John's, anything, but his brain wouldn't work, couldn't think of anything.

"Mark," John was saying now, "have you seen Mary? I want Sherlock to meet someone... Ah, there she is."

There she is. Sherlock followed John's gaze, and there was Mary, Mary Watson, professionally trained killer, assassin, and John's wife, her blonde hair falling around her face in soft waves, with a child in her arms. I'm sorry, Sherlock, truly am. Mary with a gun. The scar, the scar where her bullet had been lodged, where she had shot him, puckered but faded by now, gave a twinge.

Then she turned around, and her eyes locked on Sherlock. For a moment, the expression on her face was that of the assassin, clad in black, not of Mary Watson; for a moment only, before she had herself back under control, because then it was gone, was replaced by a smile so wide and convincing that Sherlock was almost inclined to believe that he had imagine the cold steeliness in her eyes before. "Sherlock!" she cried, coming closer. "Oh Sherlock." Then her arms – the baby, Sherlock noticed, distractedly, was in John's arms now – were around Sherlock, soft and warm and closing around him, and he couldn't help it; he stiffened. The scar just below his ribs was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and an odd, cramping sensation took hold of his heart for a moment. He closed his eyes, just for a few seconds, and when he opened them again, she was still Mary Watson, her arms around him, clad in jeans and a blouse and not the assassin, all in black and lethal and armed. "John invited you, didn't he," she asked, and Sherlock managed a nod. Mary gave a sigh. "Of course," she said, finally moving to let him go. "It's good to see you, though," she added, and her smile flickered just the tiniest bit.

"You too," he managed to croak. Mary, he forced himself to remember, John's Mary. Not an assassin in Eastern Europe, not a murderer. Unlike him. Mary.

She pressed a brief kiss to his cheek and directed another smile at him. "Still not one for hugging, are you," she remarked.

John, at her side, gave a chuckle. Sherlock's attention snapped back to him immediately. The child – baby, still a baby, a whiff of blonde hair on its head, in a yellow bodysuit, blue eyes wide open, waggling its tiny fists about – was still in John's arms, and...

John's child.

It hit Sherlock like a sledgehammer to the chest. John's child. Of course. Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A whiff of blonde hair on its head, brighter than John's, not greying, of course, bright, blue eyes, blue, blue, John's maybe.

Sherlock managed a shaky breath. John's child.

John hefted the baby up higher and turned it towards Sherlock. "Amanda," he said, "that's Sherlock, your uncle. Sherlock, that's Amanda, my daughter."

Daughter. Sherlock blinked slowly, but it did not keep John's living room around him, John's family, the people in John's living room – friends, John's voice reminded him, friends – from blurring or black and white spots from dancing across his eyes, across his vision. His head felt empty, oddly vacant, and everything was floating around him for a few seconds.

The sound of loud babbling, wailing, pierced his stupor, and he realised John's child was waving its – her, her – fists at him and kicking her legs. John's child.

John chuckled, chuckled, and it sounded happy. "Someone seems to like you."

Sherlock stared at John and the child in his arms. "Hello," he whispered finally, and the girl – Amanda – gave something like a chuckle, or maybe a bubbling breath, and Sherlock did not dare to move, did not dare to breathe and disrupt this moment, risk exposing it as another phantasm of his, a product of his failing mind, a dream, nothing more, while he was still in Eastern Europe and would never escape.

"Come on, you," Mary said, taking the baby from John. "It's time for your nap." She turned around, and then she was gone, and John smiled at him, and when Mark said something, John turned around, too, and Sherlock was left standing in John's living room, surrounded by people, like he had been surrounded by water, water closing over him and trapping him and drowning him.

And then he heard a familiar voice, forced his eyes to focus and noticed Lestrade on John's sofa.

"Sherlock, hello," Lestrade said; he chuckled as Sherlock slowly made his way over to the sofa, one hand still clenched around the folder with case files, and, at an inviting wave from Lestrade, sank down into a nearby chair. His shaking hands he hid in the pockets of his coat.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Lestrade said with a grin. "So, you've finally met Amanda, eh?"

Amanda. John's daughter. Yes. He had known, of course, that Mary had been pregnant, had deduced it, but... but to see it, to wrap his mind around the fact that there was John's daughter now, a piece of John, and...

Lestrade's voice pulled him back to the present, to John's crowded living room, filled with strange people – no, Sherlock corrected, not strange; friends, John's friends. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Sherlock blinked. Going to come, of course he was going to come, it was John, John had invited him. "Why...," he began. "Why wouldn't I?"

Lestrade shrugged and took a sip from the beer bottle in his hand. "You know," he made vaguely. "I didn't think you'd be too happy about John and Mary's plans."

"Plans?" he echoed stupidly.

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade went on. "Who would've thought that John Watson would one day be so domesticated? I mean, getting married and having a kid is one thing, but buying a house and moving to the countryside..."

All the air was compressed from Sherlock's lungs; the sounds, the presences of the other people around him faded. Countryside. Moving to the countryside. Buying a house. John?

He recoiled when Lestrade's hand landed on his shoulder, and the world around him sped up again, the sounds resurfaced, everything. "Oh, come on, no need to pout," Lestrade went on with a chuckle. "He'll still want to solve cases with you."

Sherlock felt like he was drowning. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I...," he croaked. "It's... where?"

Lestrade seemed to furrow his brow, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. Everything was blurring. "The house? Sussex, I think."

Sussex... Sherlock wanted to lurch to his feet, wanted to get away from the noise and the people and the nausea churning in his intestines, but he couldn't move. John, moving. Leaving London. Sussex.

"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice. Sherlock's eyes flickered back to Lestrade. There was a frown on his face now. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock drew in a gush of air. "What? … Me?... Yes, fine, I'm fine." Fine, he was fine. Everything was fine.

"Sherlock, hi!" Another voice appeared, Molly's, Molly Hooper. "Didn't expect to see you here," she said with a smile, sitting down next to Lestrade. Lestrade's arm moved around Molly's shoulders. Sherlock blinked.

"So," Lestrade said, "how's the case coming along?"

The case, the case... Lestrade's arm around Molly's shoulder. Moving, John was moving. John had a daughter. The case. Needed to solve the case. Lestrade and Molly. Lestrade's arm was around Molly's shoulder, and Sherlock finally got it.

"Oh," he made. Date, Molly had said, she had a date. As did Lestrade. Stupid, so stupid.

Lestrade chuckled; Molly's face was flushed, but she was smiling, too. They looked... good together. They looked... well.

"I thought you'd never figure it out," Lestrade remarked. "Took you long enough."

Molly and Lestrade. Lestrade and Molly. John, moving. John's child. Mary. John. "I... I need to..." This time, Sherlock's body obeyed; he got to his feet, stood there, his knees weak and his stomach churning, and everything was moving too fast around him. Too much, too much. He blinked, turned around, and there was John, in his line of sight, John, talking to Mark Stevens or someone else, and John laughed, and still looked happy, and Sherlock's brain was threatening to explode in his skull.

He hadn't been here, had been gone, and everything else had gone on. John and Mary, and their daughter, daughter, Amanda; and Molly, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson... Looking for a new tenant, she had told him. She had been looking for a new tenant.

Too much, too much, too much.

He hadn't been here, and now that he was back, everything was different; everyone had moved on, had gone on with their lives, and they didn't need him any more. Had, maybe, never really needed him. Because John looked happy now, was happy, and Sherlock could still, all too well, remember the lines in face, the bags beneath his eyes and the heaviness in his gait from before, from all the hurt he had caused John.

He had been gone, and maybe he should have stayed gone.

Molly and Lestrade were watching him, and John was laughing, sounding happy, at home, carefree, somewhere in the distance.

"I need to... to get some air," he managed to croak and, on shaky legs, made his way out of the room.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. If you happened to find the time for a review, it'd be much appreciated._


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